


Footmarks on the Ceiling

by mycake



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Drug Use, F/M, Femlock, Parentlock, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 21,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycake/pseuds/mycake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is leaving and Sherlock cannot cope. He has but one wish and that is to have John back. However, when Sherlock is granted his wish and is cast into a dream world where John has returned to him, it isn't exactly what he had hoped for. </p>
<p>Be careful what you wish for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was frighteningly silent in 221-B. The ringing in Sherlock’s ears was near deafening. It had only taken a few moments of complete and utter silence for Sherlock to realize what must be done to drown out his thoughts.

The room upstairs was all packed up and ready to be moved in the morning and Sherlock would finally be alone at last. Forever.

He rolled the syringe in his fingertips and gave it all a second thought. He reasoned through his options; there was this or a life of agony and solitude. Well it seemed an easy choice and before he knew what he had done, he’d sunk the needle into a big fat juicy vein and was depressing the plunger.

He could tell he’d overdone it the moment he heard the ringing in his ears turn into the blades of a massive helicopter swooping overhead. He melted into his chair and let out a gasp as the world before him started to blur like watercolours running on a canvas.

He couldn’t really feel anything at this point; it was as if his entire body went numb. He tried to stay with it, but he found himself becoming increasingly drowsy. That was an odd side effect, he thought to himself. He should have been pinging off the walls but instead he was sinking further and further into John’s old chair until he was left, staring up at the ceiling.

The last thing he could remember was wishing he had John back. Then it all went dark.

Sherlock awoke the next morning with one hell of a headache. He peeled off the covers and sat up in bed, not remembering quite how he had managed to make it to the bedroom last night. His vision was clouded with spots and flashes of light; obviously an aura from his terrible migraine.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Go away,” Sherlock groaned.

“I need a change of clothes,” John replied. Sherlock sat with a confused look on his face and his mouth agape.

“Why would I have your clothes in _my_ room?” Sherlock asked, completely bewildered.

“Sherlock, let me in.”

“God, why can’t you just leave me alone?” Sherlock groaned as he fell against the bed. John walked in anyways and looked towards the ground, avoiding eye contact, as he started searching through the dresser. “Wait a minute,” Sherlock shot up in bed and looked around frantically, “This isn’t... what did you do to my room? Where am I?”

“What are you going on about?” John asked, giving him a look.

Sherlock stared at John, “What are you doing here?”

“I need to get dressed for work.”

“Work, you don’t _work,”_ Sherlock scoffed.

John rolled his eyes and turned away. He began unzipping his trousers and Sherlock looked away, holding a hand up to block his view.

“Do you mind?” Sherlock asked, aghast.

“Like you haven’t seen it before.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. How rude and completely unlike John. Or was it?

Sherlock began looking around the room again, trying to gather his bearings. This wasn’t John’s new house was it? It couldn’t be. There was stuff everywhere, in every nook and cranny. Laundry, rubbish, and... toys?

“Why are there children’s toys in the bedroom?” Sherlock wondered out loud.

“I don’t know, ask the children,” John snipped.

“There’s no need to be rude,” Sherlock scolded.

“I’m late.”

“Not my fault.”

John gave in and let out a deep sigh, “I’ll be home early today. Love you, bye.”

John leaned over and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock was too shocked to speak. His mouth still hung open as John left him alone in the bedroom.

Sherlock sat there, staring off into space, trying to find a reasonable explanation for what had just happened. He scrubbed his face with his hands and then he noticed something he hadn’t before. They weren’t his hands.

He panicked and looked down to see he wasn’t in his body.

“Dear God, I have breasts,” he said in shock. Indeed he had quite the pair, 36D if he had to guess.

The door flung open and there stood a young boy with his hair all a mess and what looked to be chocolate on his face.

“Who the hell are you?” Sherlock asked with a squeak.

“I’m hungry,” the boy replied.

“I don’t care! What are you doing in my room?”

“There’s no food, I’m hungry,” he complained as he stamped his foot on the floor. Sherlock looked the boy over, gathering what he could about his appearance. He looked very much like Sherlock when he was a boy. In fact he could pass as Sherlock’s clone.

There was only one logical explanation, “I must be dreaming,” Sherlock declared.

“Mummy,” the boy whined.

“No, no, no. There are no mummies here,” Sherlock said as he stood up. He ushered the whiney little boy out of his room, slammed the door, and turned the lock. The boy continued to whine on the other side of the door. “Shut up!” Sherlock shouted.

“But I’m hungry,” the boy whined with his nose pressed against the door.

“Then eat something!”

The boy only sputtered a cry and heaved heavy sobs. Then Sherlock heard another cry.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked through the door.

“Matthew’s up,” he sniffled.

“There are more of you?” Sherlock asked in terror.

“I’m hungry,” he complained once more, “I’m going to die if I don’t eat.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Sherlock flung open the door and the boy came tumbling into the bedroom. “Now where’s this baby?”

“In the nursery,” the boy said as he brushed himself off. He got up quickly and led Sherlock into the room with the baby. “Can I have waffles for breakfast?”

“Is that all you think about?” Sherlock sneered. He leaned over the side of the crib and picked up the surprisingly heavy baby. The baby stared up at him dumbly with his or her mouth half open. “What’s its name?” Sherlock asked.

“That’s silly,” the boy laughed.

“It’s a question, now are you going to answer it or not?”

“Are you going to fix waffles then?”

“Right, I needn’t know the child’s name to guess the gender. Girl?”

“Are you mad? Matthew’s a boy,” he laughed.

“Ah-ha!” Sherlock shouted in revelation. “Matthew is it?”

“Hey, you tricked me,” the boy scowled.

“Right, just the two of you then?” Sherlock asked, looking around for anymore gremlins.

The boy nodded, “And Violet.”

“Who’s Violet?”

“My sister.”

“So the three of you?”

The boy nodded once more.

“And that’s it?” Sherlock asked.

The boy nodded enthusiastically and smiled a toothless grin. He was missing all but one of his front teeth and his canines seemed to be sharpened to a point.

“What on Earth happened there?” Sherlock asked, pointing out his lack of teeth.

“Trampoline,” he said with an enthusiastic smile.

“That explains a lot,” Sherlock said with a wince.

“They had to sew me back together, see?” he said, proudly showing Sherlock the scar on his chin. “And this is from when I fell off my bike,” he hopped on one foot as he showed Sherlock his knee, “And this-“

“That’s nice,” Sherlock said as he walked off with the baby in his arms. Matthew continued to stare at him in a daze, “You don’t say much do you?”

The baby’s head lolled back a bit and his mouth opened wider. He smacked his lips together a bit and Sherlock took it as a hint it was time for breakfast.

“Please tell me you’re bottle fed,” Sherlock said as he trudged down the stairs. He found the kitchen and started searching the cupboards. “Bottles, where are the bottles?”

The boy rushed to help, “Here they are!” he shouted excitedly.

“Formula?”

“It’s in the top...” the boy looked at his hands and made an ‘L’ shape with both, “Which one makes the straighter L?” he asked, holding up his hands.

“What? Don’t you know your right from your left?”

The boy shook his head. Sherlock took a look in the fridge and found a bottle, premade.

“Thank God,” he sighed. The help around the house was useless. He pulled out the bottle and all but shoved the nipple into Matthew’s mouth. The baby rejected the bottle and began to cry a small and pathetic cry.

“You have to warm it up,” the boy said.

“Great,” Sherlock sighed. “Can it go in the microwave?”

“I don’t know.”

“A lot of good you are,” Sherlock groaned, “Why don’t you go... play or something?”

“I’m hungry,” he reminded him.

“Here,” Sherlock said shortly as he pulled a box of cereal out of the cupboard and shoved it into the boy’s hands.

“I don’t even have a spoon,” he complained.

“Eat it with your hands like a caveman,”

“Cavemen didn’t have Frosties, I’m pretty sure,” he said, giving the box a strange look. Matthew started to turn up the volume and began to wail.

“What are you doing? I’m trying to sleep!” a young girl shouted as she stormed into the kitchen.

“You must be Violet,” Sherlock declared.

“Who else would I be?” she replied in a snarky tone.

“Here, take this,” he said, handing the baby to her. Sherlock bent down and began rummaging through the drawers, searching for something to cook in. He pulled out a copper pan and placed it on the stovetop. He cranked the heat on to high, poured the contents of the bottle into the pan, and began stirring.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Violet asked, giving Sherlock a look of pure horror.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’ve gone completely mental,” she stated.

Sherlock stuck his finger into the milk and gave it a quick taste test. He gagged and winced. “God, that’s awful.”

The little boy snickered and Matthew began crying even louder. Sherlock hurriedly poured the milk back into the bottle, holding the pan high in the air so not a drop was wasted. He twisted the top back on and handed the bottle to Violet.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.

“You’re clever, figure it out,” Sherlock said as he frantically raced up the stairs. He darted into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned to look at himself in the mirror. “Dear, God,” he gasped. It was worse than he feared. He’d been completely feminized.

He could hardly recognize himself in the mirror. Sure his cheekbones were well-defined and his dark hair was still full of body and tight curls, but everything else was just wrong. He was a woman.

He stepped back and let his head hang in shame, “No, no,” he protested, “Say it isn’t true,” he begged his reflection. He didn’t want to be a woman. He’d never wanted to be a woman. Why was he a woman?

He pulled down his pants and confirmed his worst fear. It was gone, though he hardly used it, his manhood was no more.

His life was over; nobody would take him seriously now. What would Scotland Yard say? They’d laugh him out of the building. What about his brother? What about John?

Then it dawned on him. He was married to John.


	2. Chapter 2

Violet, Trevor, and Matthew Henry Holmes. The Henry made sense, the variant ‘Harry’ being John's sister's moniker. The name Matthew, on the other hand, had very little to draw on. Violet Sherrinford was Sherlock's mother, Victor Trevor was Sherlock's only friend at Oxford, but he was certain he'd never met a Matthew that he'd liked.

Matthew lay on the changing table in front of him, staring up at Sherlock with his bright blue eyes, in anticipation for a nappy change. He didn't move much and didn't have much to contribute to the matter in ways of infant speech. Sherlock expected some babbling or cooing and instead was met with utter indifference.

Occasionally Matthew would wet his mouth when it became dry, but he mostly stared at Sherlock blankly. At least he looked to be staring blankly. There could have been a whole world of thoughts whirling around in that boy's head, but he wasn't about to speak his mind.

He kind of just lied there, like a doormat.

"Ah," Sherlock said to himself in revelation, "I see."

Matthew was a Mat. Sherlock set about readying his supplies and just as he was about to unbutton Mat's bodysuit, who should walk in, but his faithful John.

"Here you are John. He's all ready for you. I have things to do in the other room."

"Would you read to Violet then?" John counter offered.

"Yes but I must attend to my things, John."

"What things?" He contested.

"Oh, you wouldn't understand! Woman things!" Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"Please would you just read her the book. She has a report due Friday."

"Would you like me to write the report as well?" Sherlock retorted.

"Sherlock," he pleaded.

"Why would I ever read out loud to a ten year old girl?"

"She's eight."

She's very clever for her age, Sherlock thought. He made a mental note to watch out for her.

"She's perfectly capable of finishing the book herself. Maybe next time she'll take better care and manage her time more efficiently," Sherlock stated as he tried to escape the nursery.

"The children only want to spend more time with you," John said in a sorrowful tone.

"John Watson, you know well enough that every guilt trip you send me on is round trip and come morning we'll be right back to where we started."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That I don't care," Sherlock stated resolutely as he slammed the door shut.

He caught the tail end of John's response, "Of course you don't," and proceeded to shut out the world. He walked right past Trevor who was squeezing a tube of tooth paste into the sink, past Violet's bedroom where she was playing on John's tablet from work, and down the stairs.

Sherlock rounded the corner, took a seat on the tattered fabric sofa, and actively tried to acclimate himself to the horrid stench of children.

The house reeked of spoiled milk, stale piss, and farts captured in the various cheap fabrics in the house. The carpet, that had once been a creamy-white, was now a dull grey with spots of grape juice, pizza sauce, red wine, and quite possibly blood. The carpet's threads were bare and desperately needed replacing but not before the sofa which looked like it had been mauled by a Bengal tiger, with claw marks running down its cushions from little untrimmed nails digging into them.

The telly’s buttons were all mashed in and the remote was missing several numbers that looked to have been chewed off. There were no blinds or curtains on the windows and the walls were covered in dirty little handprints.

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and tried to retreat to his mind palace but there were footmarks on the ceiling. Little footprints had stained a part of the ceiling a tanish brown. Sherlock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in on the footprints.

They looked to be roughly five years old and were scattered in an uneven path. He searched the rest of the ceiling but could only find the one set of tracks.

He stared for quite some time before the music in the back of his mind set in and his visual field became flooded with a whirlwind of information.

It wasn't until he heard John's voice that Sherlock realized he had dozed off. He did have an unusually eventful day, he reasoned.

"Are you coming to bed?" John asked in a defeated tone as if he already knew the answer. Sherlock wasn't entirely disappointed he hadn't awoken from this dream world just yet. Since he was here he thought he'd make the most of things.

Sherlock sat up, checked the clock, and turned to John. "They're asleep," Sherlock stated, rather hoping it was the truth.

"Yes. It only took three hours," John said with a huff.

"Good," Sherlock said, clapping his hands together, "Off to bed then."  Sherlock stood and went straight for the stairs. He turned to see John lagging behind. "Well? Come on!" Sherlock scolded as he beckoned for John.

John was quick to scamper behind Sherlock and follow him closely up the stairs. Sherlock led him into the bedroom, turned to lock the door, and started to undress.

John looked at him with unabashed desire as Sherlock slowly revealed himself. John couldn't have looked any more hopeless if he tried. Sherlock left the bra on as well as the knickers, plopped down into the bed and motioned for John to do the same.

John was quick to undress down to his underwear and join Sherlock in bed. Sherlock turned his back towards John, switched off the lamp, and settled in. He could feel John's uncertain fingertips hovering over his bare shoulder.

Sherlock let out a sigh, grabbed John's hand roughly and pulled it over himself. John lay at an awkward distance with only his hand draped over Sherlock's torso.

"You're not doing it right," Sherlock scolded.

"Not doing what right?"

"For God's sake! Cuddle properly."

John moved closer and sort of scooted his arm under Sherlock.

"Wrong," Sherlock started pulling John ever closer, grabbing and pulling one of his legs over, and utilizing him as a human blanket.

"I can't fall asleep like this," John complained.

"I can," Sherlock said boldly. And in fact he did fall asleep just like that. John was so warm and fit into his curves nicely. He felt safe in John's arms. Knowing that he was never going to leave again.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke the next morning and quickly checked his surroundings. He saw Trevor first thing and knew he was still in his dream world.

"I wet my bed," Trevor sniffled.

"So you've come to wet mine as well?"

"Mummy," he whined.

"For the last time, I'm not your mummy," Sherlock growled, "Now what have you done with John?" Sherlock dug through the sheets searching for his absent partner.

"Who?" Trevor asked in amusement.

"Your father, John," Sherlock elaborated.

"He went to work."

"What?" Sherlock asked completely horror-struck, "And left me alone with you two?"

"Three," Trevor corrected.

"Go make yourself useful. Put the kettle on," Sherlock said, shooing Trevor from the bed.

"Can I have pizza for breakfast?"

"Have cake and ice cream for all I care," Sherlock groaned. He pulled back the sheets and went straight for the bathroom.

He saw the tub full of toys, a mess of make-up on the countertops, and a toilet that was in desperate need of cleaning. He looked at his face in the mirror and turned away in disgust. His make-up was running and his hair was disgustingly shiny and slick from grease.

He turned on the shower, took off his bra and panties, and stepped inside. He looked down at the smattering of mostly empty shampoo bottles, nearly full conditioner bottles, disposable razors, the soap bar that was fused to the soap dish, the hair gathering near the shower drain. He was thoroughly disgusted by the state of the place. If he was going to be forced to live in this house he'd like some order amidst the chaos.

He started with the shampoo bottles, squeezing out the last of the vapour fumes, attempting to gather enough to wash his hair, and when the bottle wheezed its final breath, he discarded it outside the shower door.

It was a small start but every journey begins with a first step.

Sherlock had the shampoo all lathered up in his hair and was just about to rinse when there came a knock at the door.

"I can't reach the kettle, there's no cake, Matthew is crying, I'm hungry, the telly's broken, and I have a bloody nose."

Sherlock pulled back the frosted glass door to reveal Trevor standing in the doorway, holding out his finger with a spot of blood on it.

"Get a chair to reach the kettle, find an alternative for breakfast, tell your sister to take care of your brother while I get dressed, and stop picking your nose."

"I wanna watch telly," he whined.

"Oh, just read a book," Sherlock slid the door shut, signalling an end to the conversation but Trevor continued to complain.

Sherlock attempted to shut him out while he rinsed his hair but the sounds of his high pitched whining drowned out his thoughts.

"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted as he turned off the water. He stepped out and grabbed a towel off the rack and covered himself. "Go!" Sherlock snapped and pointed towards the door.

Trevor started crying and heaving heavy dramatic sobs.

"No son of mine would carry on in such a manner," Sherlock thought out loud. Trevor followed him back into the bedroom and continued to have a fit while he got dressed. He could hear the faint sounds of Mat crying down the hall as he pulled on his trousers that were far too snug on his hips.

He fumbled with the latch and zip as Mat's cries became exponentially louder and Trevor's complaints grew.

"Pipe down!" Sherlock shouted.

"I want cake!"

"Then go down to the shop and get some."

"I can't drive!"

"It isn't my fault that you're so incapable. You can't even handle your own basic needs; what are you? Four? Five?"

"Seven," he sniffled.

"And you still carry on like that? Haven't you learned by now? Silent children are pitied, not the loud obnoxious ones. You want to give the illusion that you're neglected and forgotten. Just like you're sister. Why do you believe she receives your father's love and attention while you're left to put yourself to bed? Why does she get to have her books read to her? I bet he'll only race through a picture book with you."

Trevor wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"If you stopped behaving like an indolent child maybe you would actually have some friends."

"I have friends," Trevor said softly as he shuffled his foot on the carpet.

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "If that isn't a reflection of... Did you just wipe your nose on the bed?"

"No," Trevor said as he let the comforter drop from his hands.

"You're lying, I just saw you... Oh, never mind."

Sherlock had a baby to attend to. He went straight to the nursery, stopped at the crib, and looked down at Mat who was all smiles and Sherlock knew why.

He tried to become detached from his senses as he changed Mat's nappy but it was beyond repulsive. Trevor looked on with intrigue as Sherlock struggled to wipe every last bit off his baby brother's bottom.

He shoved the soiled nappy into the bin and opened up a fresh one. Sherlock turned the diaper over several times, deciding which end went where.

Once he'd settled on a decision and lifted Mat's bottom, a stream of pee flew through the air. Trevor laughed maniacally and Sherlock struggled to keep the mess contained.

"You're not very good at this," Violet remarked from the door. She leaned against the door jam and watched with a smirk as Sherlock failed to properly secure the nappy to Mat's bottom. "I could show you."

Sherlock stepped back and motioned towards the baby, "Go ahead."

"I said I _could_ ," she snickered.

"You'd rather watch me suffer," Sherlock stated with a mocking grin. He fastened Mat's nappy firmly and lifted him up. He bounced him up and down a few times and the diaper stayed put.

Satisfied with his work, Sherlock placed the baby on his hip and left the nursery, down the stairs, and into the kitchen to fix breakfast. He pulled out a tin of formula, gave the instructions a quick read, and turned on the tap. Powders for reconstitution were nothing compared to nappies. This was easy.

"I'm hungry," Trevor stated.

"Good for you," Sherlock grumbled. Violet glared at Sherlock with her Holmesian eyes narrowed to slits. She looked eerily like Mycroft. "Are you two really that idiotic?" he asked as he filled the bottle with water, screwed on the top, and inverted it several times, "The baby I can understand, but you two," he tsked "If I were to drop dead right now, you two would be dead within the week because you don't have the brains between you two to fix a bowl of cereal."

"Daddy always fixes us breakfast," Violet said, haughtily.

"Yes and I suppose he wipes your bottom as well and kisses the very ground you walk on. I, on the other hand, would rather watch you starve and see that you learn a hard lesson about independence rather than spoon feed you your breakfast."

"I love daddy more," Violet said firmly as she folded her arms and glared at Sherlock.

"Yes and right now, Mat's my favourite child."

"You can't pick favourites!" Violet protested.

"I can and I will, now if you want to be on my good side, and I suggest you do, then make your little brother a bowl of cereal before he keels over," Sherlock reached up into the cabinets, pulled out the first box of cereal and slammed it on the countertop.

Sherlock carried Mat to the sofa and sat down to feed him his bottle. Everything was intuitive with babies. They only fussed if something was out of homeostasis. Sherlock could handle the littlest one's basic needs. The other two were proving to be a problem.

They had free wills that needed breaking. He could easily manipulate the middle child; he seemed to be at an impressionable age and eager to please. The girl on the other hand wouldn't take well to bribes and idle threats. She had to have a weak spot that Sherlock could use against her.

He never wanted to be a parent but if he had to live with these children, they'd learn to respect and fear him.


	4. Chapter 4

The only shred of sanity Sherlock could hold on to was the clock on the microwave, telling him John would be home soon. The children were loud, they fought constantly, and Sherlock couldn't get a word in edgewise.

Sherlock formed a protective bubble around Mat as the children took to swinging plastic golf clubs at each other, trying to bash each other's brains in. Mat just wanted quiet and was pouting, threatening to spill tears.

"You're upsetting the baby!" Sherlock shouted.

"What's going on in here?"

Sherlock had never been so relieved to see John's overly worried and disapproving face. In one swift movement Sherlock stood and handed John the baby. He could almost feel the world lift off his shoulders. He'd made it through nine hours and the children weren't dead. He considered it an accomplishment and beamed with pride.

"Why are the children in pyjamas? Didn't they go to school today?"

Sherlock's face dropped, "What?"

"School, the children have school this week."

Sherlock looked to Violet who had on a devilish smile. He looked over at Trevor and saw the shame in his eyes. So they knew all along. Sherlock would not make the same mistake twice. The children could not be trusted under any circumstances.

"You said I should spend more time with the children," Sherlock said, staring directly at Violet who was suddenly less confident. Trevor looked up hopefully.

"You can't just keep the children home on a whim, Sherlock. They only have a week left before winter break and you know they have assignments due. Did you even bother to call the school?"

Sherlock left without a word. He didn't need John to add insult to injury. He had already wasted a whole day looking after the children when their school teacher would have done it for free.

Sherlock locked himself in the bedroom and started riffling through their belongings, taking note of anything significant and discarding the rest.

The bedroom is a man's sanctuary; an oasis among the desolation. It isn’t meant to have toys, laundry baskets, and rubbish ankle-deep on the floor.

After an hour of back breaking labour, Sherlock found the carpet was a golden hue and in decent shape. Sherlock made the bed with fresh linens and stepped back to view his work. He opened the door and shoved the toys and laundry out along with the overflowing bin and decided he'd deal with it later.

He took a look around the room and started redecorating. He removed the photos from the wall, unplugged the television set, and started pulling books from the shelves. He threw the useless items out into the hallway and went back to work.

After he was satisfied with the wall hangings, he moved the bed around to provide more floor space and shoved the dresser into the corner of the room. He cleared the desk of debris and sorted through miscellaneous papers.

Christmas cards of families he didn't care for with updates about children he didn't know about. Sherlock wasn't the least bit curious about Anderson's demon spawn.

Sherlock was just about finished when he heard a soft knock at the door. He ignored John and continued to sort through the mess.

John knocked more urgently.

"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted, "I'm almost done."

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

Sherlock went quiet and finished with the desk. He collected the trash and went to open the door. He shoved the pile of papers into John's arms.

"You're still here," Sherlock commented, "There's laundry," Sherlock pointed out the mess next to the door.

"What on Earth are you doing?" John asked, poking his head into the room.

"Reclaiming the bedroom. I can't think with all this useless clutter."

"What is going on?" John asked solemnly as he shoved the papers into the bin. He entered the bedroom and locked the door.

"What do you mean what's going on?" Sherlock ventured. He spotted a violin case in the corner of the room and felt a great sense of relief.

"With us."

"What about us?" Sherlock pulled the case onto the chair and opened it to reveal his old violin, still in decent shape. He pulled it out and started to pluck at it, tuning it to his liking.

"What about the divorce?"

Sherlock stopped abruptly and felt his stomach turn to ice, "What divorce?"

"You said-"

"I said no such thing. We're not getting a divorce so put the silly notion out of your head."

"Sherlock, I can't begin to understand you," John took a seat on the bed and let his head sink into his hands.

"That's a first," Sherlock mumbled.

"I just don't know what to do."

"About?"

"Us!" he shouted impatiently. "One second you can't stand me the next we're best friends again. And last night..."

Sherlock looked towards him and analysed his body language. He could tell he'd done something to upset John in the past. He just wasn't sure what it was yet.

"We haven't slept in the same bed for years."

Sherlock was surprised by the news. Why not? He'd had three children by John, why wouldn't they share the same bed? His thoughts turned to Matthew. How did he manage to get pregnant if John and he hadn't shared a bed in years?

Sherlock had lost John once, he wasn't about to let him go so easily.

"You snore," Sherlock stated.

John snorted a surprised laugh, "What?"

"You do, you snore."

"What does that have to do with anything?" John asked with an amused smile.

"When was the last time you saw me completely undressed?" Sherlock asked, trying to put John's mind on something else.

"Not since Matthew was born, I suppose."

"And sex?"

John cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Like I said, before Matthew."

Sherlock wanted to ask if it was precisely nine months before he was born, but he wasn't sure he was ready for that answer. He'd have to investigate that on his own if he wanted to be on good terms with John.

He wasn't sure if sex was the answer but it was probably worth a try. He'd have to work John into it, start out slowly; send him a few subtle hints.

"I should start dinner," John stood and Sherlock lunged forward. He gripped John by his lapels and looked deeply into his eyes before gathering the courage to lean down and claim his lips with his own.

He pulled away when he felt John's tongue touch his own.

"You should check on the children," Sherlock said, letting go of John's shirt.

"We could-"

"They're being unusually quiet."

John listened in and shrugged.

"Something is amiss," Sherlock stated as he opened the door and pushed John out.

"Aren't you coming?" John asked with worried eyes.

"I've seen enough of the children for one day," or a lifetime, Sherlock thought.

"I could use some help," John said, sheepishly.

"I could have used that help all day."

"I just got off work."

"The children just want to spend time with you," Sherlock mocked.

"Please, just one night, could we eat dinner as a family?"

"Fine," Sherlock conceded.

"Really?" John asked with true surprise. Sherlock kept his snide remarks to himself, about John acting like a battered house wife, and just pushed past him to go downstairs to assess the damage.

All three children were sitting on the sofa, smiling.

"Well, well. What happy little children," Sherlock remarked, placing his hands behind his back. He paced the floor glaring at each of the children, paying close attention to their eyes.

He stopped in front of Trevor and leaned in close, knowing it would intimidate him, but not expecting him to be so steel-willed. His eyes remained focused on Sherlock's and didn't waver in the slightest.

Sherlock's eyes darted to Violet who looked towards Mat.

"What did you..." Sherlock's jaw dropped when he saw Mat's eyebrows, or lack thereof. "Oh my God!" he screamed.

Mat burst into tears and the children looked fearful. John rushed to the rescue.

"What's... Oh my God! What did you do? How?" John asked, grabbing the baby.

Sherlock wrestled the razor from Violet's grip.

"You could have taken his eye out!" John shouted. He cooed over Mat who was very distraught with all the shouting.

"Two guesses who the mastermind behind this was," Sherlock said, matching Violet's defiant glare. "Lean your head back."

"Sherlock, you can't!" John objected.

"An eyebrow for an eyebrow, isn't that what the Bible says?" Sherlock said, holding a hand against Violet's forehead.

Violet screamed and held her hands over her eyebrows.

"Sherlock, stop you're scaring her!"

"Keep still or you'll lose an eye," Sherlock warned.

Trevor looked on in horror as Sherlock brought the razor up and hovered the blade near Violet's forehead.

"What was your motive?"

"My what?" Violet asked with a shaking voice.

"Your motive behind this unwarranted attack on your brother's eyebrows. Why did you do it, Violet?"

"I thought they could use a trim," she cried out.

"Wrong," Sherlock said, pulling her hand off her eyebrow, "Now tell me the truth or the eyebrow gets it."

"No!" she screamed.

"You said you loved Matthew the most," Trevor blurted out.

Sherlock let go and stepped back, "And you believed this would help your cause?" Sherlock laughed heartily.

He handed the razor to John, "Did you?” John asked.

"I said he was my favourite; I said nothing about loving him," Sherlock said in his defence.

"Both of you, upstairs. I don't want to hear a peep out of either of you," John snapped. Violet left in a flash, grateful to walk away un-maimed.

"I didn't do it!" Trevor protested.

"You were an accessory to the crime and are liable for your actions," Sherlock said, shooing him up the stairs.

Trevor stormed up the stairs growling loudly. He slammed his door pointedly and started shouting and stamping his feet upstairs.

"A bit unconventional this," John said holding up the razor.

"My father would have just shaved them off," Sherlock said as he took back the razor and disposed of it in the bin.

John swayed on his feet with Mat on his hip, in a sort of Waltz. "I can't believe you'd tell the children you loved Matthew more."

"Weren't you listening?"

"You can't choose favourites! You're their mother," John said with a heavy sigh.

"So it's my fault they decided to give Mat a shave?"

"In a sense..." John gave Sherlock a confused look, "Mat?"

"It is his name... Isn't it?" Sherlock asked with uncertainty.

"You were just so adamant about Matthew being Matthew."

"Well I've changed my mind," Sherlock huffed. He walked towards Mat and reached out to brush his thumb over his brow, "They did a botch job."

"The poor thing looks like Matt Smith."

"Who?" Sherlock asked with a hint of jealously.

"Oh, no one."

"Celebrity?"

John cracked a smile, "Yeah."

They both shared a well needed laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock pulled Trevor's sheets off his bed and threw them in a pile in a corner of the room. Trevor clutched on to a dilapidated stuffed bunny and looked at Sherlock sorrowfully.

Sherlock didn't agree to the prisoners getting dinner; he believed they should go to bed hungry just like he did as a child. Sherlock often went to bed without dinner. He never shaved off Mycroft's eyebrows though. A childhood misspent, he thought.

"You know you shouldn't follow your sister blindly, she'll lead you astray," Sherlock said as he unfolded the fresh bed clothing. "Your father and I are on your side. We feed you and clothe you-"

"Violet made breakfast this morning," he pointed out, "And she helps me tie my laces."

"Can't you tie your own laces?"

Trevor shook his head.

"You really are helpless," Sherlock grumbled. "Your sister would throw you under a bus given the chance. She musn't be trusted."

"Why?" Trevor asked with wide eyes.

"She doesn't have an ounce of compassion. She showed no signs of remorse for what she did to Mat. She'll either be a serial killer or work for the government when she's older and I'm certain you don't want to get tangled up with that," Sherlock smiled to himself, "Because you're the good one."

"I am?" Trevor asked with bright eyes.

"Of course!" Sherlock said with a mischievous grin. "You're the one everyone loves the most."

"Then how come I don't have any friends?"

"They're jealous that you're smarter, better looking, and have all the adults on your side," Sherlock said, hoping to dismiss the topic.

"How do you make them unjealous?" Trevor asked glumly.

Sherlock had wondered the same thing for years and had never come up with an answer.

"Do you really care about what your peers think of you?"

"Yes," Trevor responded, "Very much."

"Well stop. A true friend will like you no matter what."

"Where do I find one?"

"By chance," and after thirty years of torment and bitter loneliness, he wanted to add. John was a fluke; a diamond in the rough. Sherlock would never find another John. Surely he could fix what they had. He’d do anything to have his John back. "You're not going to find one by wetting the bed or shaving off your brother's eyebrows for a start," he added. "You're odd enough; you don't have to go adding to your list of faults."

"I thought a true friend doesn't care."

"Yes, well it helps not to be outwardly weird, at least not upfront. Now choose a book before I choose for you."

"But you never read to me."

"You're my new favourite. Just don't go telling the others. You wouldn't want Mat seeking his revenge on you in the middle of the night," Sherlock said with a playful smirk.

Trevor, of course, chose the longest book off his shelf. Sherlock wasn't too keen on 'Alice in Wonderland' but if he could just get the majority of the children on his side, he knew he could destroy Violet's revolution in its infancy.

Trevor fell asleep not long before John brought Mat into the nursery to lay him down in his crib.

Sherlock got out of the bed, walked into the hall and reached into Violet's room, "Lights out," he commanded as he turned out her lights. Violet turned on her bedside lamp and stuck out her tongue.

It took every ounce of Sherlock's reserve not to shout. Instead he went straight down the stairs and opened the fuse box by the doorway. He flipped the switches until he heard a "Hey!"

Sherlock slammed the grate shut and returned up the stairs, "Good night." he told Violet as he retreated to the bedroom.

He waited for John, rather impatiently. It was nearing nine and all of the children were asleep, save one.

Sherlock got out of bed to check and saw Violet's room light was on. Sherlock stepped in to see John was reading to her. The nerve!

"While the cat is away the mice will play," Sherlock remarked, "What is this?"

"We're nearly finished, Sherlock. Give us a break."

Sherlock snatched the book out of John's hands, "Harry Potter? Are you serious? You made it sound as if the girl was reading _War and Peace_!" Sherlock scoffed. "This is a children's book!"

"She is a child," John reminded him.

"This book is for leisure! It has no academic value! It's all make-believe!" Sherlock was appalled by the quality of literature the schools were forcing the children to read.

"It was on the banned book list," Violet said haughtily, "That's why we're reading it."

"Green Eggs and Ham was on that list as well and I don't see you reading that," Sherlock countered.

"Wait, what, why?" John stuttered.

"People's Republic of China said it displayed early Marxism or something of the sort."

"Green Eggs and Ham?"

"Yes."

"Hm, I did not know that." John said, looking towards the book in Sherlock's hands.

"Just because a book was once banned doesn't mean it is any good," Sherlock handed the book back to John and left the room.

Sherlock returned to his bedroom and sulked. The trouble with sulking is: it's useless without an audience. He couldn't fall asleep in his mood and he was itching to do something. The violin was too loud and he didn't feel much like cleaning.

There was only one thing to do. He returned to Violet's room to listen to John read the silly little book about some silly little boy running off to become a magician.

Sherlock could hardly follow the story, three-quarters of the way into the book. He was overwhelmingly bored but something in John's voice was so soothing he decided to stay a bit longer.

For the second night in a row he nodded off without intending to and woke up to John softly nudging his hip.

He followed John to the bedroom and locked the door behind them.

Sherlock was quick to strip down to his underwear and glide smoothly into bed. Curiosity got the better of him when John started to undress. He couldn't seem to look away as John pulled down his trousers.

"What?" John asked, stopping halfway to peel his socks off.

Sherlock continued to stare, hoping John would take a hint. If John was right, then it had been at least a year since they last did anything remotely intimate.

John stopped when he reached his pants and slid into bed with Sherlock. Sherlock was disappointed John didn't fully undress but then again Sherlock wasn't quite ready to show off his womanly figure.

He needed to shave, but going by the amount of surface area that needed shaving, it would take him at least half an hour to clear all of his unsightly stubble. He didn't have the luxury of time with a house full of children so once John fell asleep, he decided to make the most of the night. He drew a bath and set to work removing every last unsightly hair on his girly legs.

He looked at the pile of toys that he had cleared out of the tub and thought he might as well sort through them. He moved on to scrubbing the toilet, cleaning out the shower, and come dawn's break he was down in the kitchen scrubbing the floors on his hands and knees.

It wasn't until John made a startled yelp that Sherlock realized he'd been up the whole night scouring the house.

"Oh my God. Are you alright?" John asked, trying to take it all in.

"Of course."

"It's nearly six, what are you doing up? How... Did you sleep at all?"

"I'm fine, just got fed up with the state of things. Thought I'd start fresh. The decor in here is terrible. A little taxidermy could liven things up," Sherlock stood and watched John who was still in shock. "You don't like it."

"No, no, it's great. Just..." John shook his head clear, "You really didn't have to do all this."

"Trust me, I did." Sherlock's upper lip snarled at the sight of the clean house. It lacked character, wallpaper, and style. It looked like any ordinary dysfunctional household. "We need a new sofa. Consider it a Christmas gift."

"Yeah, sure," John nodded dumbly. "Wow, it's just so clean."

"I know, isn't it dreadful?" Sherlock looked up at where the footmarks permanently stained the ceiling.

"God, I can't believe it's been seven years," John said, staring at the same spot. "First thing you said about the house was it was too damned clean." John pointed towards the tracks along the ceiling, "I remember it was raining that day. You went outside and dipped little Violet's feet in a muddy puddle and flipped her upside down to trek mud all over the brand new ceiling. Said it added character. A resale feature," John laughed. "This house has certainly been well lived in," he remarked.

"Not entirely," Sherlock disagreed. There were certain aspects of Sherlock's past that needed erasing if they were ever to move forward, but for now he let their muddied tracks remain a stain on the ceiling.


	6. Chapter 6

Seeing John fully naked for the first time was a surprise, for both of them. Sherlock walked into the bathroom to find John in all his glory.

"Oh, excuse me," Sherlock pardoned himself. John turned away and stepped into the shower. Sherlock thought through his plan of attack and ended up pulling back the shower door to reveal John once more.

"What are you doing? It's freezing! Shut the door."

Sherlock shed his clothes before he could change his mind and stepped in the shower with John.

John was just at the right height to get a good view of Sherlock's tits. Sherlock decided to let him have his look as he looked over John in return.

John was at about half mast and when Sherlock reached out and touched him, John groaned like he had died and gone to heaven.

Sherlock was intrigued by his response, so he kept going. John pulled Sherlock down by the back of his neck and started frantically kissing him as Sherlock gave him a sloppy hand job.

John's breathing became laboured and Sherlock started feeling a dull ache, followed by a pulsating sensation in his new nether-regions.

Before he could explore it any further, John tensed and gasped as he came into Sherlock's fist. So much for romance, Sherlock thought. John blushed a bright red and continued with his morning routine.

They met in the kitchen briefly before John had to dash off to work and abandon Sherlock once more. At least John had the decency to drop the kids off at school on his way. It was well worth three pounds a day for their little 'breakfast club' not having to listen to them bicker over the breakfast table.

With the short break rapidly approaching Sherlock was starting to dread the thought of Christmas with the children. Maybe they could convert to Judaism at the last moment and forgo any Christmas drama.

It was well past Hanukkah though and Sherlock didn't believe the plan would go over well with John.

Sherlock didn't want anything to do with perpetuating lies about make believe elves, Santas, Christmas cheer, and peace on Earth. It was all a bit too schmaltzy for his liking.

Then there was the matter of a Christmas tree. John of course wanted one. Sherlock didn't see the sense in it. Then again he could hardly see the sense in anything anymore. This dream world was starting to get to him. He felt himself slipping away and settling into the role he'd been provided.

After a week he had little hopes of ever returning. He felt trapped in his own skin. It was starting to make him sick.

His mind kept turning though. When he closed his eyes, all of his thoughts were still there; still his own. He no longer dreamed though.

He'd awaken and knew he'd slept but he couldn't recall a single dream. It was very peculiar, but no more peculiar than suddenly becoming mother to three children one morning after being a bachelor for nearly forty years.

Sherlock was starting to itch from staying placid for so long. He was on a dangerous path that usually led to a binge. He couldn't bear to think he had a cache in the house, but he wouldn't put it past himself.

Every time he resolved to learn more about his female self, the more sickened he became. He was her and she was him, that was all there was to it. Sherlock could foresee himself making the same errors and slipping into the same patterns.

His female self must have lost her mind. She was on the brink of complete self destruction. No wonder John was so battered and battle weary.

Sherlock wouldn't allow it to happen to himself. He desperately needed to feed his mind.

He thought of working remotely for Scotland Yard but it seemed too farfetched. The local police wouldn't want anything to do with a bored house wife either.

Sherlock looked to Mat for answers.

"I suppose I could always find out who your biological father is," he told Mat, "What say you to some tests?"

Sherlock took his plan forward and started drafting a list of necessary supplies.

John returned home just as Sherlock was ready to head out.

"Where are you off to?" John asked, noting the list in Sherlock's hand.

"Christmas shopping. Where are the children?" Sherlock stopped at the door and looked John over. His cheeks were a rosy pink from being exposed to the wind for too long.

"Neighbour down the way, birthday party..." John seemed distracted by something; a thought perhaps crossed his mind. At that moment Sherlock had just about the same thought.

Sherlock lost his composure as John lunged forward. Sherlock was beginning to like this direct approach. John certainly was forceful.

"Where's the baby?" John asked as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt.

"Asleep," Sherlock replied. John's hands were quick and had Sherlock's bra off faster than he had ever managed himself. Sherlock couldn't keep up with John's frantic foreplay. "Calm down, we have time."

John slowed down momentarily but picked up the pace shortly after, tearing off his clothes not far from the doorway.

"Shouldn't we do this upstairs?" Sherlock asked nervously. John placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and started pressing down.

Sherlock was brought to his knees and John fished himself out of his pants. Sherlock just laughed at him.

"Oral sex? Have you gone mad?" he cackled.

"But..." John whimpered pathetically.

"When do I get any sort of gratification? I'd like to know. No wonder I haven't had sex with you in ages."

"We were-"

"You were going to shove it down my throat. You have no interest in pleasing me; it's all about getting off for you, isn't it?"

Sherlock knew his type, being a public school boy. The lads did little else than rub one off as quickly as humanly possible so they wouldn't get caught. They had no interest in the other person they were sharing their body with. Mutual masturbation was what they called it.

Had he really regressed to being naughty school boy or had John always been a selfish lover? No wonder he never had a steady girlfriend. Whatever would have made Mary so attracted to him?

Sherlock felt like he was the only person that understood John. Now he wasn't so sure. Sherlock could already tell the sex wasn't going to be great and John hardly had any redeeming qualities that a woman would be interested in. Or did he?

He was good with children. Damn it all. That had to be it. John was a family man.

Sherlock could care less about that. John was loyal and brave and truthful, he had all of qualities of a true man and was one to be admired, not sentenced to a life of servitude. Mary wanted to enslave John, Sherlock wanted to set him free.

"Oh, all right. But you owe me," Sherlock mumbled as he pulled John forward by his hips. John was truly shocked when Sherlock took him into his mouth.

The taste was enough to make Sherlock gag. There was no doubt John was enjoying it. He was already rock hard and couldn't sustain it for much longer.

 _Dick sucking is done with the lips, no teeth, and the tip of the tongue._ The only thing Sherlock had retained from Harrow was finally being put to good use. Sherlock was disinterested in the act and just wanted it to be over with.

John had to actively keep himself from forcing it down Sherlock's throat; little did he know Sherlock lost his gag reflex ages ago.

John began curling his toes and whimpering a soft prayer. He thrust into Sherlock's mouth and came undone with a loud moan.

Sherlock felt his airways become blocked and began to choke. John pulled out and immediately started apologising.

Sherlock spat a wad of semen into his hand, "Good God man, haven't you ever heard of pulling out?"

"I don't think I was there that day of sex ed."

"It would explain the three children," Sherlock said as he delivered a swift slap to John's ass. Not for the first time that week, Sherlock wished he was a man again. Not only to get payback, but also to have a go at John's pert round bottom.

It made Sherlock quiver just thinking about it. Damn his misfortune.


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday came all too soon and Sherlock was forced to face his nemesis once more. Violet acted as a wedge between Sherlock and John and wasn't easily deterred from her endeavours.

Sherlock had gained Trevor's trust and found he was easily manipulated. He took to bribery very well and with the constant threat of Santa looming overhead, his behaviour was exemplary.

"You like spy novels, don't you?" Sherlock asked after a particularly nasty run in with Violet involving a shouting match that Sherlock got in trouble for.

"Uh-huh," Trevor nodded as he dug into his bowl of ice cream.

"How would you like to help me on a little mission? As a secret agent?"

"Do I get a gun?"

"No! What? Of course you wouldn't have a gun."

"Any gadgets?"

"Look, I'll give you a fiver if you keep an ear out for any plans your sister might have for my downfall," Sherlock said, producing a five pound note.

"Can I wear a moustache?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly, "Wait, why?"

"For a disguise."

Sherlock placed the palm of his hand against his face, "Just act natural."

"I want a tank and a machine gun and a robot dog and-"

"What are you going on about?"

"For Christmas!"

"Spy on your sister and all that will be yours and more."

"And action man and a radio control helicopter and a-"

"Shut up and eat your ice cream," Sherlock said with a heavy sigh.

"It's cold," he complained. Sherlock gave up and left to occupy himself with anything non-child related.

His violin was calling and desperately needed his attention. Sherlock walked past John and stepped over Mat who was doing what he did best, just laying there.

"Where are you going?" John asked with doe-eyes.

Sherlock decided a response wasn't necessary as it would lead to an argument and instead walked onward towards freedom undeterred by John's sad expression.

Just as Sherlock was turning to climb the stairs, he came toe to toe with Violet.

"You again," Sherlock sneered.

"I do live here," she said, trying to push past him. Sherlock placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

"What have you done?" he asked, searching her eyes for an answer. "Oh, you didn't," he groaned.

"Honestly the cupboard? What do you take me for? A four year old?"

"What have you done with them?"

"Why should you care?"

"Because John cares, damnit. Why can't you just-" Sherlock stopped himself short before he said anything condemning. "Fine, let's go see what you've done to ruin Christmas this time."

Sherlock trekked up the stairs and went straight to the broom cupboard. He looked down at the tracks left in the carpet from the chair that was dragged across the floor in order to reach the highest shelf.

"I see you've left your brother's presents intact. Your first mistake. Also you have failed to cover up any of the evidence of your break-in," Sherlock followed the tracks to Trevor's room, "I see," Sherlock hummed. Violet stood in the doorway as Sherlock searched the room. "And you believed a good sob story would make your father believe your brother destroyed your presents?"

Sherlock opened the toy box and was truly surprised to see a hideous Christmas jumper torn to shreds.

"That jumper was intended for your father," Sherlock said, staring at the ruined knit sweater. He lifted the jumper to reveal Violet's gifts were all unwrapped but still in their packaging.

Sherlock hummed to himself before a wicked smile crossed his lips. "Well, well. You really have saved me the trouble of destroying this God awful jumper."

Violet gritted her teeth and glared at Sherlock.

"I'd give up now if I were you. You're fighting a losing battle," Sherlock said as he pulled the tattered jumper out of the toy box.

"Daddy will always love me more, Mary said so."

Sherlock couldn't hide his surprise. "Who's Mary?"

"My school teacher?" Violet said with a strange look.

Sherlock ran a hand over his chin. His stomach turned sour and he felt a panic rise in his chest. That snake in the grass was too close to home. He had hoped she didn't exist, but that was wishful thinking.

He'd have to approach John about the subject, to see where he stood. Violet be damned, Mary was the true threat to his happiness.

It was the same story, over and over again. Sherlock was living a nightmare.

As he laid down next to John that evening he could only pray that he'd wake from this torturous dream world.

That night, Sherlock had a dream. He remembered it vividly. He was staring at a speckled white ceiling tile, unable to move, unable to speak. He had never been so frightened in his life.

When he closed his eyes, he awoke in his bed, next to John, soaked in a cold sweat.

He got up and instinctually went to the nursery. Trevor was fast asleep with his blanket up to his ears and Matthew was wide awake in his crib, staring at the ceiling.

"What are you doing up?" Sherlock whispered softly. He leaned in and picked up Matthew.

He felt so incredibly warm and real. It was impossible to tell what was real anymore. Sherlock was starting to feel a growing panic. He had never been so unsure of anything in his life.

He'd been so passive; how could he let himself slip so far down the rabbit hole? He was rocking a baby to sleep that he wasn't sure even existed.

Sherlock felt a sudden sensation of dread. In all his time at the house he'd never once stepped outside the front door.

How far did this dream world stretch?


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock took his first step out into the new world.

"Dover," he said to himself.

"What was that?" John asked as he fiddled with the house keys. Sherlock ignored him and explored his surroundings.

He was certain he'd never visited such a place. Did this neighbourhood truly exist? He wanted to go as far as possible but he found it hard to make it past the driveway with his sudden and overwhelming anxiety.

There was a disconnect between his eyes and brain, he wanted to believe it but couldn't. He was determined to maintain a sense of self but he doubted he'd ever be able to wake from this nightmare.

He let Violet get to him. He was definitely shaken.

Sherlock jolted when the car horn beeped.

"Sorry," John apologised as he unlocked the door.

Sherlock's legs quaked as he made a wobbly path to the car. John looked at him sympathetically as if he knew. He couldn't possibly know.

For the first time, in a long time, Sherlock was truly terrified. The car roared to life and pulled out of the driveway. Sherlock clutched on to the door handle as if it were the only thing keeping him firmly grounded.

He kept staring out his window, feeling his stomach twist in knots, watching the town pass him by.

"It just keeps going," Sherlock said with a gulp. There were no discontinuities, no time lapses, just one smooth ride. Was this reality? How could he have possibly gone so long in a dream-like state without noticing something was amiss?

Sherlock paid close attention to the world around him. He could remember every last step he took to get to this moment in time. What if it wasn't a dream?

Sherlock's paranoia grew until he couldn't take it any longer. He shut out the world and didn't come to his senses until his car door opened.

"We're here," John said gently. Sherlock opened his eyes to see a car park packed with people, making a mad dash to do their Christmas shopping.

The shops were abuzz with all the holiday shoppers. Sherlock felt claustrophobic and found it hard to breathe with all the people bustling about and bumping into him.

The toy store was a battle field and Sherlock was ill prepared for war. John had his list in hand and an agenda. Sherlock merely followed his lead and stayed close behind.

John picked up a toy train from the shelf and looked it over.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked as John started to walk away with the model train.

"I'm getting it for Trevor."

"You're getting it for yourself, now put it back," Sherlock scolded. The boy wanted a rocket for Christ's sake, not some stupid train. Wait, how did he know that? Sherlock searched his memories and came up empty.

What had the boy said he truly wanted for Christmas?

"At least get him something that flies or shoots things. What child would want a boring train for Christmas?" Sherlock asked as he yanked the train from John's hands and placed it back on the shelf.

"Any child would love a train for Christmas," John argued.

"Well not mine," Sherlock sneered. He paused just long enough to think about what he'd just said for John to walk off again. It was just like John to leave him on his own.

"Since when do you care about Christmas?" John asked abruptly. He was rubbing at his forehead and was looking very distraught. It was obviously becoming too much for him; he was nearly on the verge of tears and his voice cracked slightly when he spoke.

"Can we just get through this?" Sherlock complained. He knew John was battling with their past but he didn't have to make a scene. Now was neither the time nor the place to discuss their marriage.

"I just get the feeling-" John started.

"Enough with your feelings. Here take this," Sherlock shoved an oversized tank into his arms to shut him up and piled on an Action Man. "All we need is a radio controlled helicopter and a machine gun and possibly a robot dog and we're done."

"What about Violet and Matthew?"

"Oh, Mat won't remember his first Christmas and I was thinking Violet would enjoy a fat lump of coal, with some matches so she could real havoc on the suburbs of Dover. The demon child," Sherlock mumbled at the end.

"Takes after her mother," John said offhandedly.

"I do wish I could see myself in any of the children but I fail to see the resemblance," Sherlock admitted.

"They look just like you, I can't believe-"

"Not in appearance but in mental capacity."

"They're children!"

"At their age-"

"You were also a child, with your own faults. They're just average ordinary children." John said, trying to put an end to their conversation.

Sherlock wouldn't have it; he'd have the last word even if it was the last thing he did. "Then they're not my children."

"Could you be any more bipolar?" John asked, shaking with rage.

"Not in public, John. People might see past our illusion of a happy healthy marriage a suspect we're a sham."

"Why do I even bother?"

"Oh you know you love it," Sherlock laughed, "Otherwise we'd have split long ago. You'll always come crawling back... to me," Sherlock stopped and watched John who had his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were turning white. "You came back."

John's grip loosened slightly.

"That's what this is about," Sherlock said out loud. The whole divorce issue, Mary, Matthew.

John had left.


	9. Chapter 9

They hadn't slept together in years, not because they couldn't stand the sight of one another, but because John had at one point in time left. Sherlock couldn't believe it; no wonder the children clung on to him so tightly, no wonder why he was so unreasonably kind and patient.

They rode home in silence together. Sherlock was stunned by his findings. There was so much tension in the air it was nearly palatable.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock finally said after arriving at their house.

"It’s fine," John lied through his teeth. He killed the engine and stepped out of the car, slammed the door shut, and went inside without a word. Sherlock sat in the car, alone with his thoughts and the mountain of toys they had purchased for Christmas.

It was unbelievable how much work could get done in such a short time when two people worked together in awkward silence. There was no fighting, no shouting, just shopping. Let's get in, get out, and be done with it.

Oh dear God, Sherlock thought, was that what sex was going to be like? He knew he'd have to eventually. He was far too curious now and it was becoming less and less likely that he'd ever escape. This was his reality now.

The thought chilled Sherlock to the bone. Stuck forever with his imaginary children in a parallel universe where John was still a selfish prick. What a cruel, cruel twist of fate. At the very least John could be his footman or eternal slave or something of the sort.

If Sherlock ever got a crack at another wish, he'd make sure to clarify that he wanted John back and that he be forever grateful that he was allowed to be in Sherlock's presence.

The worm, how dare he leave? There was only one logical explanation for his departure: he was shagging the children's school teacher. Sherlock only needed to gather enough evidence to condemn John and hold it over his head for the rest of his life.

He would have to start with the children, shake them down for information, and he knew just who he would have to question.

"What does Miss Mary think of your father?"

"This is an unlawful interrogation, I want my lawyer!"

Sherlock turned the lamp towards Violet and she shielded herself from the blinding light.

"Answer the question, Miss Holmes. Your freedom depends on it," Sherlock threatened.

"My freedom?"

"You're at the right age, Violet. I could have you sent away, far, far away. To boarding school."

"You wouldn't," Violet said with a squeak of uncertainty.

"Wouldn't I?" Sherlock sneered as he flipped off the lamp. "Now be a good girl and tell mummy all about Mary."

"You're not my mummy." Violet ground her teeth and folded her arms. "Otherwise you'd know all about her."

Sherlock had doubted her powers of deduction.

"You don't put up your hair like mummy, you don't put on makeup, you don't..." Violet's face contorted and she sputtered out a sob, "I want my mummy," she cried out.

Sherlock took a seat on the bed, "Well I'm your mummy now, might as well... get used to it," Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively.

"If I tell daddy he'll say I've gone mad. Anyone would. Why are you here? Where's my mum?"

"I thought I was the one asking the questions. And what's so great about your mummy anyhow if she's just like me?"

Violet went silent.

"I see," Sherlock hummed.

"I want everything to be like it was," she said in a voice just barely above a whisper.

"I couldn't agree more. Now if you'll help me-"

"How?" Violet interrupted.

"How did I get John back? What did I say or do?"

Violet contemplated the question for a long time before saying, "I don't know."


	10. Chapter 10

There was very little time before Christmas and John was in an absolute panic getting everything ready.

"He does this every year," Violet said with an overly dramatic sigh.

"Even when we were apart?" Sherlock asked as he watched John frantically scrub the kitchen floors.

"Especially when you were apart," Violet said as she threw herself onto the sofa.

"You girls could help," John said with an annoyed sigh.

"Oh but, John, you're doing such a lovely job, nobody cleans floors quite like you. Don't you agree, Violet?" Sherlock asked with a wry smirk. Violet giggled in response. "You missed a spot, right there," Sherlock pointed out.

"That's it. I'm giving up. You want a clean house, then you do the work!" John shouted as he threw his scrub brush into the bucket. He stormed off and left the floor half done.

"He'll be back," Violet sighed.

"I don't doubt it," Sherlock said as he took a seat on the chair in the corner of the room. "We really need a new sofa."

"And a new house."

"And new children."

"And a new mum," Violet countered.

"It sounds like Mary is up for the job."

"She _is_ really nice to Trevor and me."

"How so?"

"She says we can come to her anytime if we need help with anything. I think she means with our home life."

"All teachers say that," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Do they? Or do they only say it to the children with broken homes?"

"What does she say about John?"

"She asks loads of questions."

Sherlock felt his stomach twist into knots, "Like?"

"How's he doing? What's he been up to? Is he seeing anyone?"

"Whoa, wait. Is he seeing anyone?" Sherlock repeated.

"She wanted to know what he thought of her."

"That evil little-"

"Sherlock!" John shouted from up the stairs.

"What?" Sherlock shouted back.

"I need to run to the store; Matthew's awake."

"Good for him," Sherlock jeered.

John came down the stairs with Mat on his hip.

"Be attentive, just this once," John said, handing him over.

Sherlock promptly placed the baby on the floor.

"At least put him in the bouncer, Sherlock," John whined.

"Oh God, let the boy breathe. He can't even sit up yet. Let him roll around."

Mat lay there, not much interested in doing anything other than chewing on his hands.

"He'll learn in his own time," John said in his defence.

"When he's forty and still living in our basement."

"We don't have a basement," John argued.

"We'll need one if you keep it up. None of the children will want to move out if you keep coddling them."

"I'm leaving, good bye," John hurried out the door and left Sherlock on his own.

"Why do you have to do that?" Violet complained.

"Do what?"

"Argue back and forth, all the time. It’s tiring."

"It passes the time," Sherlock shrugged as he got down on the floor with Mat.

"No, it doesn't, it just drives daddy up a wall and causes him to run away."

"What do you propose I do?"

"Stop arguing!" Violet shouted as if it were the simplest answer in the universe.

Sherlock thought he'd try out her advice that night after dinner. With the children tucked in their beds and everything silent, Sherlock decided not to pick a fight.

"Did you finish the dishes like I asked?" John asked, knowing full well that Sherlock didn't.

"Oh piss off," Sherlock sneered. John threw him a pillow and slammed the door in his face. Well, Sherlock thought, at least they weren't arguing anymore.

This was more direct. Instead of wasting an hour fighting, Sherlock could just go downstairs and sleep on the sofa. He'd end up there anyhow, this was just more energy efficient.

Sherlock knew John would come downstairs in the middle of the night to check on him. Sherlock closed his eyes and feigned sleep as John pulled the blanket over him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. The damned sod.

Sherlock couldn't possibly sleep and decided to return to the bedroom to curl up with John. He was warm and firm and comforting, even if he did snore. Sherlock wrapped his leg around him possessively and drifted off.

Sherlock dreamt of that same ceiling tile. He was paralyzed with fear, his heart was racing, and he couldn't cry out. His eyes darted towards a closed door with a metal handle that was turning open.

Sherlock shot up in bed and began panting for air, desperately filling his lungs with precious oxygen. He felt as if someone had been sitting on his chest.

"Sherlock," John said worriedly, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'm fine, it's fine," Sherlock said, brushing his hand off his shoulder. He let out a deep breath, "It's fine."

Sherlock lay with his eyes open, not stirring, allowing John some shut eye, until morning. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing that tan door with the little viewing window and long metal handle. He'd seen the door before, or one just like it. He wanted to forget all about the silly dream but he couldn't quite shake it.

The whole day, Sherlock walked around the house in a sort of daze. The children took notice and stayed far away. Sherlock lay on the sofa in his classic pensive pose, wondering what he was supposed to do now that his life was all topsy-turvy. Was he just supposed to wait around or make something of it?

Ever since he arrived it was a constant battle to maintain his sanity and now he felt as if he had lost all hope.

John came in with the mail and dropped a letter on Sherlock's chest, interrupting his thoughts.

"Mind explaining that?" John asked.

Sherlock held the lab results in his hand. He'd forgotten all about the paternity test. In fact, he couldn't quite remember sending away for one. Sherlock looked at it quizzically.

"I don't-" he started. He opened the envelope and took a look at the test date. The 1st of December. It was her, his female self had sent away for it before he had arrived. She had the same thought.

So it was true.


	11. Chapter 11

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock. What I don't understand is why you would need one in the first place," John huffed as he paced the floor.

"Yes, you do. Otherwise you wouldn't be as angry as you are now," Sherlock explained, "John, I'm sorry. I wasn't in my right state of mind."

"Yeah, well..." John scoffed. "Obviously this gives me a lot to think about."

"What about Mary?"

"What about Mary?" John snapped.

"Where does she come into play?"

"She doesn't! This is between us," John said shortly, "And whoever the hell else you're sleeping with."

"I'm not sleeping with anyone, not even you, apparently."

"Oh really?"

"What do you think, I'm hiding a man in the cupboard and every time I say I'm going to the toilet I'm secretly having glorious adulterous sex behind your back? When do I have the time, John?"

"I don't know, you could be seeing the postman for all I know!"

"Our postman is a woman, John!"

John snorted an inappropriate laugh and Sherlock tried his hardest to hold back a giggle.

"What are we doing?" John asked with a smile.

"What we do best, apparently."

"Well, now we know Matthew is mine," John said, throwing the letter on the bed.

"You always knew," Sherlock, in the spur of the moment, reached out for John's hand and held it tight.

"Let's just cancel Christmas," John chuckled. "I can't stand all this drama and you know your sister will only make things worse."

"My sister?" Sherlock asked. He was suddenly hit with the image of Mycroft as a woman and couldn't help but burst out into a fit laughter.

"What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing, nothing. I'm fine," Sherlock said through tear filled eyes.

His sister, now he had to see this.

John went back to cleaning and Sherlock disappeared into Violet’s room.

"Since when does Mycroft celebrate Christmas? And what kind of name is Mycroft for a girl?" Sherlock asked Violet.

"What kind of name is Sherlock?"

"Touché."

"She's only trying to keep up appearances with her new husband," Violet said with a dreadful groan.

"You don't mean-" Sherlock looked out Violet's window and sure enough, there stood Lestrade, opening Mycroft's car door like a true gentleman. "Oh God!" Sherlock cried out. "She's as big as a cow. I hope the floor boards are reinforced. Here comes auntie Mycroft."

Sherlock stepped into the hall to see Trevor rushing down the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked as Trevor leapt off the bottom step.

"Nowhere!" he shouted.

"You're sure going nowhere in a hurry," Sherlock remarked.

John opened the door and Sherlock got his first full view of Mycroft as a woman. John greeted her warmly and Lestrade stepped in with armfuls of bags. Trevor was dancing with joy to see all the gifts his aunt had brought.

"Dear God you're pregnant," Sherlock pointed out. "What the hell have you been up to?" Sherlock looked to Lestrade with an accusatory gaze. "Come, have a seat before you keel over," Sherlock showed Mycroft to the sitting room. "How could you?" Sherlock asked out of Lestrade's earshot.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't you start," Sherlock warned.

"If you liked him-"

"God, no. Are you... Lestrade? Never."

"Why so jealous then?"

"Jealous, me? Look here, sister-"

"Do you need anything to drink?" Lestrade interrupted.

"Oh piss off you bastard. Haven't you done enough?"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted as Lestrade retreated like an abused puppy.

"But you hate children!"

"So do you," Mycroft retorted.

"This is different. Look at you, you're as big as a house!"

"Oh, grow up," Mycroft scolded as she took a seat on the sofa.

"I cannot believe you'd do such a thing and with Lestrade, for shame."

"You're one to talk," Mycroft said, letting out a puff of air, "How are things with John?"

"Fantastic, never better."

"Oh really? I'd say by the way he answered the door-"

"Oh shut it, what do you know?"

"A lot more than you," Mycroft teased, "It's Christmas can't we all get along?"

"All of us under one roof," Sherlock took a seat on the sofa next to Mycroft.

"Dreadful, isn't it? Gregory's idea entirely."

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Sherlock remarked. He was secretly glad Mycroft was Mycroft even if he/she was pregnant.

“No tree this year?”

“Haven’t had the time. If you haven’t noticed, I have three children.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed,” Mycroft said, lifting her eyebrows.

“What’s your excuse?” Sherlock asked, matching her gaze.

“We’ll just have to take the children out and try to find the last tree in all of England.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked a bit too excitedly.  

“Consider it an early Christmas present...” Mycroft shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, “Sherlock, you really could do with a new sofa.”

“That seems to be the consensus around here.”

“I can only hope my child is nothing like your three hell raisers.”

Sherlock ignored her snide comments and looked forward to having an empty house.

He bundled up his children tight and wished them well as they ventured out to find a Christmas tree.

“Oh thank God,” Sherlock said, slamming the door, he turned the lock and pressed his back to the door just in case they decided to come back.

“Right, we haven’t much time,” John said as he rushed up the stairs. Sherlock was surprised; he thought John liked the children.

He raced up the stairs and was disappointed to find John pulling toys out of the broom cupboard.

“It will go twice as fast if you help me wrap,” John said, handing Sherlock a stack of presents.

Sherlock let out a loud and infuriating moan. “We’ve finally got rid of the bastards, can’t we just-“

“Sherlock!” John chided. “It’s Christmas Eve, we are wrapping presents.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and stood there like an idiot. He helped John carry the gifts into the bedroom and watched him wrap.

“What is it now?” John asked after an unreasonably long silence.

“We should be... oh never mind,” Sherlock sighed as he took up a roll of wrapping paper.

“We should be what?” John asked, looking up from his work momentarily.

Damn his eyes, Sherlock thought. He just had one of those faces. Damn him, damn all of him. He was so plain, Sherlock should have thought him too plain, but he wasn’t. He was perfectly plain and so John... ish.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock moaned. “Can we please just have sex already?”

“What?”

“I’ve waited years for this and I cannot believe I just said that out loud,” Sherlock clenched his fist and bit his tongue. “We should be having sex, right here on this bed.” Sherlock felt his pulse race and his hands sweat, “I don’t want to lose you again,” Sherlock began to sniffle, “Oh my God, am I crying?” Tears spilled down his cheeks and Sherlock had to turn away as his face began to scrunch up as he began to cry. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he asked himself.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, folded one arm over his stomach, and placed a hand on his forehead.

He felt John’s firm hand on his shoulder. He’d never wanted to be touched and not touched at the same time before. He was a whirlwind of emotions and an absolute mess.

He turned and embraced John fully.

“I want to be back on Baker Street, I want everything back to the way it was. I hate this. Why did you have to run off with Mary? Why couldn’t I be there for you?” he cried into John’s shoulder.

“Shh,” John hushed and patted his back, “It’s alright.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and he saw the door again, this time he could hear voices, calling out his name, he saw a flash of white light.

His eyes shot open and he stared into John’s eyes in a wild panic.

Before John could say a word, Sherlock kissed him fully and open-mouthed, as if he’d never get the chance ever again. He squeezed John tightly, never wanting to let go.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Sherlock whispered, hoping John would take the lead. John wiped away his tears and sat back on his heels.

“Me neither,” John said with a heavy sigh. John wiped his nose on his sleeve and Sherlock noticed the tears rolling down his cheeks. Sherlock reach out for him once more and was grateful to have him so close.

He buried his nose into John’s neck and inhaled. His smell was intoxicating and made Sherlock want to lap him up like warm milk. He went light-headed and felt himself leaning a bit too much on John.

He could hear the disdainful creak of John’s knees as they gave in. Sherlock tumbled forward onto John and knocked the wind out of him.

“Oof,” John groaned as Sherlock shifted to put less pressure on him. Sherlock had never imagined it would be this awkward trying to get into John’s trousers. He brushed back John’s hair and looked down at him.

John looked like a cornered animal, startled and frozen to the spot.

“We don’t normally do this sober, do we?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head and gulped nervously.

“I’m not going to eat you,” Sherlock scoffed.

“It’s just-“

“What?” Sherlock asked shortly.

“I’m usually on top,” John said apprehensively.

Sherlock let out a laugh, “John, I’ve never known you to be a timid man. Especially in the face of danger,” Sherlock said, giving him a playful shove.

“You’ve... never had sex with you,” John said with a nervous squeak.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sherlock, you’re like a praying mantis. I swear, you’d tear my head off if I gave you the chance,” he laughed. John looked up, saw Sherlock’s stern gaze, and cleared his throat. “I’d like to be in the driver’s seat, if you know what I mean.”

Sherlock dismounted and flopped on to his back, “Do with me what you wish,” he sighed.

John sat up and crawled over to Sherlock, “You sure? We don’t even have-“

“For crying out loud, John. Do I look unsure?” Sherlock said, motioning to his ready and willing body. John licked his lips slowly and furrowed his brows.

“So you’re sure?”

“I’m going to bite your head off in a moment if you don’t get on top of me.”

“Ok, ok,” John said as he hurriedly straddled Sherlock’s legs, “There, happy?”

Sherlock reached out and grabbed at John’s crotch, “You’re not.”

“You’ve got to... you know... wake it up,” he said awkwardly.

“It’s usually hard already.”

“Sherlock,” John said with a heavy sigh as he dipped his head.

“Why do I have to do all the work around here?” Sherlock busied his hand, fondling John through his trousers. “It’s not working.”

“Give it a sec. Christ, woman.”

“Watch it,” Sherlock warned through his teeth. He held on to John firmly, “Remember where my hand is.” John’s cock twitched in response, “You kinky bastard,” Sherlock laughed.

“I was thinking of something else,” John said dismissively.

“Whips and chains, John, I would have never thought.”

John tensed once more. “I’m not... that isn’t...” John panted. He bit his lower lip and let out a staggered breath. Their lips met in a slow and deliberate kiss. It felt so good to be unhurried for once.

Sherlock let his hands wander up John’s chest. He rested his right hand over John’s heart and held it there. John’s hands went to work elsewhere and started sliding Sherlock’s pants down his hips.

His fingers were ice cold and Sherlock jolted when he pressed them to his clit.

“Jesus Christ,” Sherlock cursed. John slid his fingers in a circular motion and Sherlock arched his back. He held his breath and tensed completely. It was an entirely new but not entirely unpleasant sensation. Sherlock squirmed, half trying to get away.

When he couldn’t take it any longer he let out a startled breath. John pulled his hand away and Sherlock grabbed him roughly, guiding him back to his sopping wet pussy.

“Don’t stop you idiot,” he scolded.

“But... sex,” John said pathetically and breathlessly.

“It felt _good_ ,” Sherlock complained. John started undressing his lower half and Sherlock could care less, he wanted more of the doctor’s steady fingertips working wonders on his lady parts.

John already had himself freed from the confines of his pants and was raring to go. Sherlock laid back and just took it for once; that is until the head of John’s penis breeched his hole.

Sherlock pulled away and closed his legs. He let out a shocked gasp as a tearing pain shot through him. He never thought it would _hurt._

He let out a long “Aye,” and held on to his crotch. “Are you trying to kill me?” he asked in what felt like excruciating pain. The pain slowly subsided and Sherlock took in a deep breath.

“Are you ready?”

“No!” Sherlock shouted with an indignant squeak. “That hurt.”

“It’s been a while.”

“You’re trying to tear me a new one.”

“It isn’t that big, is it?” John looked down as if he was uncertain.

“You could club a seal with that thing.”

John snorted a laugh and turned red in the face from holding it in. Sherlock couldn’t deny he was keening for it, just the sight of John’s cock was getting him hot and bothered, and he knew he’d acclimate to it.

“Just get it over with,” Sherlock said, worriedly looking at John.

“I’ll take it easy this time,” John said reassuringly. He held his cock in one hand and slowly brought the head to Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock tensed up immediately. “Sh, it’s all right,” John said, stroking back Sherlock’s hair.

“I’m so getting you back for this, John Watson,” Sherlock winced as John entered him once more. He let out a slow puff of air as John seated himself fully.

“There, now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Sherlock ignored him as he tried to regulate his breathing. It felt like... unh.

John slid forward and Sherlock felt his backbone turn to jelly. He sunk into the mattress and gave into the sensation.

Sex felt amazing and weird all at the same time. He had a tingling sensation in his spine and a fire in his groin and when John lifted his legs onto his shoulders, Sherlock was convinced he’d died and gone to heaven.

John was rubbing up against him in just the right way that it made Sherlock’s back levitate off the bed. John was just as far-gone. He snapped his hips forward and shook Sherlock down to his core.

The feeling just kept building until Sherlock couldn’t handle it anymore. He dug his nails into the bed and let out a loud and low moan as he reached his climax. His legs tensed and his pussy tightened as he clenched his teeth and swore under his breath.

John let out a low grunt and Sherlock could feel his cock pulsate inside him. John let out a shocked gasp and held still a moment. He started breathing heavily and sweating profusely.

He let Sherlock’s legs slide off his shoulders. Sherlock couldn’t move if he tried.

“I’m sorry,” John panted.

“For what?” Sherlock croaked out through his dry throat. It took Sherlock a moment to catch up, “Oh God, you didn’t.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was too exhausted to watch the children decorate the tree. He lay on the floor in the sitting room, splayed out dramatically, with Mat by his side. They both stared up at the footmarks on the ceiling.

He didn’t care if Mycroft was giving him looks or that Trevor was whining or that Lestrade was touching Mycroft’s thigh. He was content with the world as it was.

Then he closed his eyes.

He heard beeping sounds in the background, followed by air compressing and decompressing. His throat was completely dry and he couldn’t see far past his nose. He gagged and the voices started up again. He started coughing and sputtering.

Blue gloved hands were all over him. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He began to choke.

He startled awake and sat up on the floor. Everyone was staring at him and John was at his side. He looked to see Mat was safely on Mycroft’s lap. He let out a relieved sigh.

“Sorry, she’s being doing that a lot lately,” John apologised as if Sherlock was invisible.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“I know, sweetheart,” John said, gripping his shoulder firmly.

“Sweetheart?” Sherlock scowled. John cracked a smile.

Sherlock looked up to see the tree was fully decorated, “Looks like shit,” he said, letting out a deep breath.

“Sherlock!” Everyone seemed to scold at once.

Sherlock couldn’t sleep that night, knowing what waited for him in his dreams. He lay shaking in bed, even though he was wrapped up in John’s warm body. He held on to John’s forearm and breathed slowly, counting each and every last breath.

Come morning, he was a nervous wreck.

“They’re getting worse,” he told John over coffee.

“The nightmares?”

“Yes,” Sherlock hoped that was all they were. He let out a shuddered breath and tried to regain his composure as the children came rushing down the stairs.

Trevor couldn’t contain his joy looking at the mountain of presents.

“Wow!” he shouted. “Are there any for me?”

“Are you kidding? They’re all for you,” Sherlock said with a laugh.

“Really?” Trevor shook with excitement. Violet folded her arms and glared at Sherlock.

“Well, Mat has a few too,” Sherlock teased.

“Very funny,” Violet scowled.

“It’s Christmas, try to look happy.”

Violet showed her teeth and went to inspect the presents. Lestrade stumbled out of the office and stretched his back uncomfortably. He rubbed his forehead and shook his head clear.

“You look like hell,” Sherlock remarked.

“Ta,” Lestrade growled.

“Should have taken the sofa.”

“And what? Missed the opportunity to be kicked off the air-mattress and sleep on your lovely tile floor?”

“She is your... girl... thing.”

“Fiancée,” Lestrade groaned as he took a seat on the sofa. “And a complete bed hog at that,” he grumbled.

“Can we open our presents now?” Trevor begged.

“Not until princess Mycroft rises from her slumber. Oh and speak of the devil.”

Mycroft snarled her upper lip as she walked by Sherlock to take a seat on the sofa, “Making a pregnant woman sleep on an air-mattress,” she growled.

“Alright, who’s first?” Sherlock asked excitedly.

Sherlock had never liked Christmas before, but something about his offspring tearing into Mycroft’s presents and ungratefully tossing them aside, brought a little bit of joy into his heart.

“Clothes, who gets children clothes for Christmas?” Sherlock laughed to himself. Mat sat in his high chair with his mouth open, waiting for another spoonful of cereal. He stuck his tongue out in anticipation and could care less it was Christmas; he just wanted to be fed. “Don’t tell the others,” Sherlock whispered, “You’re my favourite.”

Mat gave him a goofy smile and Sherlock felt his heart lift. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as he looked. The lack of eyebrows really didn’t help matters. Sherlock gave him another spoonful of mushy cereal and Mat gnawed on the spoon.

“Teething?” he asked. “You’re going to be a terror soon enough.”

He realized he was talking to someone who couldn’t possibly talk back. He suddenly felt very domestic, but somehow he was okay with that.

“Sherlock,” John said, tapping his shoulder. He held out a gift.

“A necklace. Why, thank you, John,”  he said, holding the wrapped package in his hand as he spoon-fed Mat with the other.

“Open it,” John laughed.

“Oh, alright, if it will shut you up,” Sherlock sighed as he opened the box to reveal the small gold locket in the shape of a heart. “How very sentimental of you,” Sherlock said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“I’m glad you tolerate it,” John smirked. Sherlock looked over to see Mycroft in visible distress from all the Christmas cheer in the air. Sherlock gave John a chaste kiss on the lips to add to his discomfort.

“Aw, yuck,” Trevor groaned. “Get a room you two.”

“Trevor,” John scolded. “Why don’t you go take your toys upstairs?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Young man,” John said sternly.

Sherlock found himself laughing. It was all a bit too much. A perfect Christmas.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock woke in another panic. Again, she couldn’t shake the feeling for hours. She stayed in the shower long after the water ran cold.

When she finally stepped out she felt the crushing guilt of taking all the hot water. She didn’t feel quite herself after the nightmares and the medication did little to help. She was blessed to get through one night without having any dreams at all.

They’d found a good psychiatrist, in the city, but she was far too expensive to visit often. They’d tried hypnosis; that was an epic failure. Sherlock had slipped under for eight hours and they couldn’t bring her to. All the while she was screaming out, unable to be heard. Her eyes were wide open but she was asleep.

It was altogether too terrifying an experience to repeat.

“There’s no hot water,” Sherlock said in a monotone voice that sounded unlike her own.

“That’s alright,” John said, scrubbing his face with his hand, “It’s three in the morning, why don’t you come back to bed?”

“I can’t sleep,” she sighed as she took a seat on the side of the tub. “How long have I been here?” she asked out loud. “I hardly feel myself anymore.”

“That’s just the medication talking.”

“I shouldn’t need to be medicated to sleep, John.”

“I know, come back to bed,” he yawned, reaching out a hand for her.

“I will in a bit.”

John took a seat beside her on the edge of the tub. “I’ll wait it out with you,” John sighed. His head dipped down to his chest and he began to nod off. Every once in a while he’d jerk awake and pretend as if he wasn’t sleeping.

“You look dreadful,” Sherlock told him. His eyes were red, he had a scraggily beard, it was obvious that he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in ages. “A month,” Sherlock stated.

“What?” John asked, half asleep.

“That’s how long I’ve been here, one month, to the day.”

“That’s nice, Sherlock,” John slunk back into the empty tub and curled up into a ball. He fell asleep immediately and began snoring loudly.

Sherlock woke up three times that morning. She was bewildered and dazed at first but then her eyes adjusted to her surroundings. Everyone was talking softly that morning. It was a good change of pace. She could breathe on her own now, but still couldn’t move anything but her left thumb. Why not her right, she wondered.

She felt like Mat, just lying there. When her thoughts turned to Mat, she quickly became paralyzed with fear and her eyes shot open.

She was in the bathroom and Mat was crying. She sat up on the floor and looked in the tub to see John was still fast asleep.

“Thank God,” she said as she raced to the nursery. Mat was red in the face from crying for so long, desperate for attention. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock apologised, bending over to retrieve him from the crib.

Mat was inconsolable with his new tooth coming in.

“Mum, we’re late for school!” Violet shouted from the other room. Sherlock noticed Trevor was struggling with his laces.

“Here, let me,” Sherlock said, bending over to help him tie his shoes, while balancing a baby on her hip.

“We don’t have time for breakfast, I’m hungry,” he whined.

“You’re always hungry,” Sherlock said, making sure his shoes were extra tight, “Just grab something for the car.”

“We don’t have anything,” he groaned.

“I know, I’m a terrible parent, now get a move on or you’ll be late _again_.”

“Teacher’s going to kill me,” he whined.

“Oh well! C’est la vie!”

Sherlock rushed them out the door with a screaming baby and hurried to buckle them into their car seats.

“I hate these things,” Sherlock hissed through her teeth. “You know what, I give up!”

“What if we’re in a car crash?” Trevor cried out, frantically trying to buckle himself in.

“I don’t know why you need a five point harness! We’re not going out on the racing circuit are we?”

“Who knows, that drop-off zone is a bloody mess,” Violet said as she stepped into the van.

“Watch your language,” Sherlock said automatically. She didn’t even have to think about these kind of things anymore. She just parented on auto-pilot half the time. “Dummy,” she said holding out her hand. Violet passed over Mat’s dummy and Sherlock popped it into his mouth.

Mat gnawed away at it viciously.

“That’ll give us at least five minutes, buckle up, this is going to be one hell of a ride.”

“Language, mummy,” Violet reminded her.

They whizzed down the streets at mach five, dodging all sorts of traffic, rolling through at least three stop signs.

“We’re gonna die!” Trevor cried out.

“I will not have you late to that... bitch Mary’s class.” Sherlock growled as she put the pedal to the metal. The car came to a screeching halt and Sherlock put the car in park as the final bell rang.

It was a terrible taunting sound. Sherlock slammed her fist against the steering wheel.

“Jesus! For once!” she shouted to the sky.

“You’re going to have to bring us through the front office,” Violet said with a sigh.

“Yes I know I’m going to have to bring you through the front office,” Sherlock sneered. “In my pyjamas. Because you two, couldn’t get up in time for... you know what?” Sherlock stopped and took in a deep breath. “Let’s just all take in a deep breath,” the children obeyed and they all sucked in a deep breath and let it out together, “And let’s blame Miss Mary for our misfortune.”

“Agreed,” the children said together. Sherlock stepped out of the car and slid open the back of the van. “Shall we?”

She escorted the children into the school with a screaming baby.

“Morning, Iris,” she told the receptionist as they walked by. It’d become such a habit that they were tardy, the front office was accustomed to letting them in ten minutes late.

“She’s going to give me detention,” Violet said as they walked hurriedly to her classroom.

“I know,” Sherlock sighed.

“It’s all your fault.”

“Isn’t it always?” Sherlock scoffed. She pushed Trevor and Violet into their classroom and came face to face with Mary.

“Good morning,” Mary said in her cheerful tone.

Piss off, Sherlock thought to herself but knew better than to say out loud, “Isn’t it just?” she said instead.

“Have a seat, children, while I have a little chat with your mummy about punctuality,” Mary scuttled into the hallway with her high heels and tight skirt, God how Sherlock hated her. “And what’s the excuse today?”

“Eh,” Sherlock replied, not feeling like dignifying her with a response more than one syllable long. “Long night.”

“The children are the ones that are truly suffering,” she said as if she cared.

“For missing five minutes of school?” Sherlock pouted. Mat had just about had it and was ready to bite someone’s ear off if he didn’t get changed, fed, and comforted. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some mothering to do,” Sherlock said, turning on her heels, hoping to escape unscathed.

“Is that what you call it? Mothering?”

Sherlock gritted her teeth, “Just walk away,” she muttered to herself.

“From where I see it-“

“From where I see it, you’re a back stabbing whore. Who’s only interest is to steal John away from me, once more!” Sherlock shouted. “Well he’s not coming back to you, no matter how tight your skirt is or how much make-up you slather on your face, because I have something _you_ don’t,” she taunted.

“And what’s that?” she asked, clearly amused.

“I don’t know, but when I find out, you... you better watch out...” Sherlock threatened.

“Mental, absolutely mental,” she scoffed as she escaped to her classroom.

“I told her,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

“Ah,” Mat said shortly.

“Yeah, I know, you don’t have to tell me twice.”

She took Mat home and went through the normal routine of feeding and changing him and putting him down for his morning nap.

Sherlock went into the bathroom, just to check, and found John, still lying in the tub.

“John?” she asked nervously.

John startled awake, “I’m up, I’m up.” he pulled himself out of the tub and stumbled over the side, “Shit, what time is it?”

“You don’t even want to know,” Sherlock said, shaking her head.

“Oh shit, not again. Why didn’t you wake me?” John asked, scrubbing his face.

“Just stay home, there’s no use.”

“I have to go to work, I’ll be out of work if I don’t,” John complained.

“You’re no use to anyone in your state.”

“I can cure the sniffles with my eyes closed,” John said, pushing past Sherlock to get dressed.

“Take the day off, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“No, no. I can’t, Sherlock. No sex.”

“I’ll let you sleep in.”

“Dear God, I love you,” John said as he collapsed on to the bed. “Wake me up in an hour. It’s all I need,” he mumbled.

Five hours later, Sherlock decided to wake John up.

“John,” she said.

“I’m up,” he said with a snort, “See, one hour, right as rain, what did I tell you?” John said, making a wobbly path for the door.

“The children need to be picked up from school.”

“What time is it?”

“Half past three.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Have you seen yourself?” Sherlock pointed out.

“I know I need the sleep, but you didn’t have to... thank you,” John said with a heavy sigh.

“Take Mat with you, I could use a lie-down.”

“Are you sure?” John asked nervously. “You could nap in the car.”

“Thirty minutes. Leave me be if I’m resting peacefully.”

“Alright,” John said uncertainly.

Sherlock was a bit nervous as well, laying down to rest. She closed her eyes and started to drift off immediately. At first she just retreated to her mind palace. It was comforting and familiar. Then she was met with that damned speckled ceiling tile. She blinked a few times and breathed deeply, just as the therapist had suggested.

Her lips were chapped and dry. When she tried wetting them, they cracked and bled. She looked around the room a bit. It was daytime. She didn’t mind it much in the daytime.

She felt so heavy and everything was so difficult to take in. She could gather she was in bed, not her own of course, the blankets reeked of ethylene oxide.

Her head turned on its own accord as if gravity was suddenly much heavier on the right side of her face. At her bed side was John, who was fast asleep. Only that was impossible, John was out picking up the children. Sherlock shut her eyes and opened them again.

She was still in the room. Panic rose in her chest and she struggled to breathe. Her throat felt as if it was closing up.

She awoke in the dark and bolted out of the bedroom into the light of the hallway. She could see the light in the nursery and fell to her knees.

John hurried up the stairs and knelt beside her.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated the same mantra, over and over.


	14. Chapter 14

“What do you see?” Violet asked.

Sherlock closed her eyes, “I’m in a room; it’s always the same room. At first I could only see the ceiling tile above my head and the door in the corner, with the viewing window.”

“Now what do you see?”

“I see everything. The window, the telly, the heater against the wall, there’s an IV drip bag above my bed, and a chair off to the side that John sits in.”

“Is he there now?”

“No, it’s late. There’s nobody there now. I don’t like it. I feel so alone. I-I... I have to stop,” Sherlock opened her eyes and looked to Violet who was sitting on the edge of her bed. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Violet shrugged.

“I know it’s not me in that bed. I can’t move, I can’t speak, but every time I close my eyes now, I’m there.”

“What does daddy think?”

“He doesn’t. I’ve stopped telling him about it... I can’t bear to see the look on his face.”

“But you’ve stopped waking up screaming,” Violet said, looking at her hands, fiddling with her thumbs nervously.

“I’ve come to accept it. It’s just a part of my everyday life now I suppose.” Sherlock sat up and flipped on the light. “Now what’s the matter?”

“I’ve been having bad dreams too,” Violet choked out.

“Would it help to talk about them?”

“No,” she cried.

“Alright, hush now,” Sherlock said, holding her close. She hated to see Violet cry.

A silence fell over the room and Sherlock felt time tick away. She was a shell of her former self, but she kept up appearances for John’s sake.

Matthew was sitting up now and Trevor could tie his own laces. There was so much to be proud of, yet Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling her family was slipping away from her.

She held Matthew close every night and read just a bit longer to Trevor. They’d finished ‘The Lord of the Rings’ even though Sherlock couldn’t stand the books. It just felt like an extra long camping trip that ended in a trip to a volcano, but it made Trevor happy.

John was finally getting the rest he needed and Sherlock hated to see him go to work in the morning. In fact she was starting to hate to see the children leave for school as well. She’d keep them home for breakfast and would arrive fashionably late, no matter the consequences.

When John would arrive home, Sherlock would all but tackle him at the door, and kiss him like it was the last time she’d ever get the chance.

That night Sherlock and John quietly made love and lay awake in each other’s arms for an unreasonable amount of time. Sherlock kept pressing kisses to John’s arm, worshiping him, until she sputtered out a cry.

John held her close until her tears ran dry.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock eyes fluttered open. It was light out. Her mouth was dry. Not again, she thought. Her head lolled over to see John at his post, dutifully guarding her bedside. He had a moustache, gross, she thought.

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, not intending to make such a noise, and John startled awake. Sherlock startled as well and felt her heart race.

“Sherlock?” John asked uncertainly. Sherlock closed her eyes. She opened them again, he was still there.

“Huh, uh,” came out of her throat in a low baritone.

John stared at her blankly, “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock blinked, hoping he’d disappear, and she’d wake up in bed, her bed to be exact, with her John.

“Oh my God!” John shouted. Sherlock felt a familiar panic but she couldn’t wake up. Sherlock let out a strange muffled groan and John seemed elated. He darted out of the room and suddenly Sherlock felt very tired.

She rested her eyes for a moment and when she opened them again, it was dark.

The ceiling tile hung above her head, taunting her. Wake up, she told herself, wake up damnit. Her head lolled over just to check. Fuck, he was still there. Go away, she wanted to shout.

Matthew, was her first thought. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, followed by another, and another.

“It’s okay,” John said, holding her hand. Her ugly man hand. Sherlock felt the bile rise in her throat. This wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening.

The next few days passed just the same. She’d wake up, look over, see John, and feel like vomiting. Not that his face was displeasing, surely the moustache didn’t help, but she didn’t want to see this John. This John wasn’t the father of her children. This John loved Mary and ran away to be with her.

Sherlock hated to cry so much, but there was little else to do, she had very little motor control and she missed her lovely hands and bodacious tits that John seemed to love so much.

Others came to visit and brought little to no comfort, especially not-pregnant male Mycroft and his not-fiancée Lestrade. What Sherlock wouldn’t give to chin one of them.

She was tired of the doctors coming in to poke and prod at her. They sat her up, they laid her down, they made her ‘exercise’. They even tried to force her to eat. It all reminded her too much of Mat, which would make her emotional and utterly useless.

“He seems to be responding more and more to stimuli, how long would you say he was conscious today?” One doctor asked John.

Sherlock rolled her eyes and John took note of it as he tried to suppress a laugh and answer the doctor seriously. “Two, maybe three hours?”

The doctor hummed a physician’s response and Sherlock let out a grunt of displeasure. John smiled once more at Sherlock’s antics.

“He’s becoming more and more like himself,” John smiled to himself. “I think in a few days time he’ll be just as helpless as he was before.”

John laughed uncontrollably as Sherlock gave him a look.


	16. Chapter 16

Humour was what seemed to be helping John get through the worst of it. Entertaining John helped Sherlock take his or her mind off things. She still wasn’t quite sure who she was.

She’d given up entirely on speaking, she sounded like a belligerent drunk when she spoke, with a voice that seemed to shake the foundations of the hospital. She resorted to throwing things in John’s general direction to get his attention and had worked out enough dexterity to flip him off when she needed to.

Walking was loads of fun and she never ended up in the same position twice. She’d passed out at least half a dozen times and with the body of a full-grown man, it was difficult for the nurses to catch her. She noticed a change in staff after the third round, where she’d nearly taken out a female nurse half her size.

The male nurses were pushy and unsympathetic. Sherlock purposely made life hard on them in any way possible, refusing to perform tricks for them. She’d just slump over and pretend to be dead if they asked anything of her. It was far too much work for little to no reward. She didn’t care if she ever walked again.

“He’s just trying to make things difficult,” John said with a sigh. Sherlock’s eyes shot open to see John hovering above him. He reached out and his fingertips just barely brushed John’s chin. John leaned down closer and Sherlock’s hand came to a rest on the side of John’s face.

“Pish off,” Sherlock slurred.

John laughed and held his hand firmly, “You’re such an ass.”

It took all of Sherlock’s energy to raise her middle finger and soon she was back asleep.

* * *

“Mat,” she mumbled, still half-asleep.

“Sherlock,” John replied, reaching out to squeeze her forearm. “I’m here.”

Sherlock let out a loud low groan. She knew she was in for another terrible day of torture.

“Mary’s here,” John said softly.

“Mm,” she groaned, “No.”

“She wants to see you, to know you’re okay.”

Sherlock knew exactly what she wanted to tell her, “Pish off and die,” she groaned.

“Be civil,” John pleaded.

Sherlock gripped the air, looking for something to throw. She grabbed the remote to the telly. At least she’d be armed for when Mary entered the room.

“Sherlock, it’s tethered to the bed.”

“Fuck’s sake,” she groaned as Mary entered the room. She refused to even look at Mary.

“Don’t mind him, he’s being dramatic,” John said angrily. Sherlock felt him pinch her arm under the covers.

“John, be kind,” Mary scolded. “Sherlock,” she said with a long sad sigh. Her hand hovered over Sherlock’s forehead, threatening to push back her hair.

“Don’t, don’t d-dare,” Sherlock warned. She knew it sounded more right in her head. Sentences just didn’t flow right anymore, things were stuttered, mixed up, and slurred. She wanted to cry but she wouldn’t give Mary the satisfaction of seeing her worked up.

Sherlock couldn’t remember falling asleep, but there John was with the same old, “Sherlock, I’m here.” He squeezed Sherlock’s forearm, just as before, and Sherlock let out a sigh. “It is the first of January-“

“Wrong.” Sherlock interjected.

“It is,” John countered.

“Febru... feb... fuck it all,” Sherlock said.

“No, it’s most definitely the first.”

“No.”

“God, Sherlock,” John said, obviously flustered. “I’m not the one who was in a coma, now stop correcting me.”

“I think you should step outside,” an unfamiliar voice told John.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock was thrown into a blind panic. Would he ever come back? What about Mat, Trevor, and Violet?

“No!” he cried out.

He, Sherlock was a he. And what the hell was he doing? Sherlock looked down at his feet that he was standing on.

“John!” he shouted, in a voice, most certainly his own. He pounded on that retched door with the viewing window, and called out for his friend. Not his lover, not his husband, but his friend. His only friend in the world that was trying to leave him again.

Sherlock was being pried from the door as he actively combated the medical staff.

“John!” he shouted once more.

“Sherlock!” he heard in reply. They were holding him back as well, those bastards. Sherlock fought off the nursing staff, ripped the IV from his arm, and lumbered towards John.

He didn’t stop until both hands were resting on John’s shoulders. “What did I say?”

“What?”

“What did I say to make you come back?” he begged as he slumped down to his knees. “What did I say?”


	17. Chapter 17

Months of therapy, months, and all for a bad hit. Sherlock vowed never to buy from that strange man again.

“Sherlock,” John chided.

“Fine, I’ll never use... cocaine... intravenously again,” he mumbled.

“Or any other drug for that matter, in any other route. Sherlock, you could have died.”

“A little hypoxia and head trauma never hurt anyone.”

“You...” John stopped himself short, holding his hands up, primed to strangle Sherlock. “Brain damage, permanent brain damage, is that what you want? You’re not invincible you know?”

“I never said I was.”

“A little hypoxia, you say?” John said, clamping his hands around Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock laughed as John pretended to throttle him.

“Have you come up with a name for the latest case?”

“No, why? Have you?”

“Case of the Battered House Wife,” Sherlock said proudly.

“Now that’s just distasteful,” John said with a scornful look. “And besides, the Canterbury Cannibal ate his wife raw, remember?”

“Oh, not the Canterbury Cannibal. Now, that’s distasteful,” Sherlock said as he unfolded the newspaper, revealing the headline.

**Canterbury Cannibal, Captured.**

Sherlock pursed his lips and waited for an explanation as he tapped his finger impatiently on the front page.

“I couldn’t help it,” John smiled, “They all want to know that you’re back up to speed after your accident.”

“Better off dead,” Sherlock sighed.

“Don’t say that,” John groaned.

“You know it, I know it, the public knows it. The press is out to get me,” Sherlock said, crumpling up the paper and throwing it in the fireplace.

“Who’s Mat by the way?”

Sherlock felt his heart sink, “No one.”

“Alright, but for weeks-“

“John, it’s no one, so just leave it.”

“Okay,” John conceded.

“Thank you.”

“I mean I’m just your best friend, I stayed with you in the hospital, for Christ’s sake Sherlock, where are you going?”

“Out!” he shouted as he slammed the door shut and left in a hurry.

“You forgot your coat!” John shouted after him.

Sherlock needed to clear his mind and there was nothing a little fresh London smog couldn’t fix. He filled his lungs and ran off down the winding alley-ways and back-ways, into the heart of London, where he could disappear among the crowds of nameless faces. They were nothing to him and he was nothing to them.

He’d return home to an empty flat and be grateful he didn’t have anyone to care for but himself.

He blocked out the world as he roamed the streets, never aimlessly, always walking with a purpose, meaning to forget.


	18. Chapter 18

“Come out and have a drink with us,” John begged, “It’s my birthday.”

“You’re birthday isn’t until Saturday, you’re already drunk, and I hate your w-friends.”

“My w-friends?” John repeated.

“Don’t make fun of me, John. You know I’ve been having trouble.”

“Sure, blame it on the accident,” John loved it to call it that. It made it seem like Sherlock hadn’t done it all on purpose. “Besides, my w-friend, Mary, won’t be there tonight. It’s just you me and... where are you going?”

“Out, you said we’re going out.”

“Yeah... but.”

“You didn’t think I’d actually go,” Sherlock sighed and hung his coat back on the hook, “Great.”

“I want you to come, why else would I ask you?”

“Pity? Perhaps. Why else would you ask me?”

John gave him a confused look. “Are you coming or-“

“Definitely not, now that you’ve admitted that you don’t want me there.”

“Of course I want you there, I feel like a broken record, Sherlock! Come out, have some fun.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said grabbing his coat once more, “But I won’t like it.”

Sherlock sat at the table, brooding. The floor was sticky, the table top was sticky, and quite possibly John’s friends were sticky as well. Sherlock looked over to Lestrade who was looking at him.

“How’s things?” Lestrade asked, uncomfortably.

“I don’t know, how’s my sister?” Sherlock countered. It took him a moment to realize what he’d just said. “Don’t mind me, I’m drunk.”

“You’re on your first drink,” Lestrade pointed out.

“Light weight.”

“I’d say. You’ve only had a sip.”

“Blame it on the ‘accident’ then,” Sherlock grumbled.

“What’s wrong? Out with it.” Lestrade demanded as he scooted closer.

How could Sherlock possibly tell him he missed his husband and children, that the life he was leading was absolute shit, and that he’d rather be in a coma than where he was now?

“Do you ever miss your children?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, all the time.”

“All right, I’m done.” Sherlock walked out of the bar without so much as a good-bye and walked home.

He lay on the sofa, opening and closing his eyes, hoping for a miracle.

“I just need to say good-bye,” he whispered.

John burst through the door and stumbled in, unannounced. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” John shouted. “Come on, we’re going back to the pub,” John declared, grabbing Sherlock’s arm.

“Would you please just leave me alone?” Sherlock said smoothly as John dragged him from the sofa and on to the floor.

“Not until you have a good time.”

“I was having a good time, on the sofa.”

“You weren’t having a wank, were you?” John asked uncertainly, loosening his grip slightly.

“Since when do I masturbate on the sofa?”

“You’re right, you usually save it for the shower.”

“John!” Sherlock shouted indignantly.

“Oh come on, what man spends forty-five minutes in the shower each and every morning? Or am I supposed to believe you spend all that time, twisting and diffusing your hair?”

“Yes!” Sherlock shouted because it was absolutely true. “I haven’t even thought about sex since we last... Oh God,” Sherlock groaned.

John dropped his arms and looked at him strangely, “Since we last what?” John asked, completely aghast. “And why were you thinking about sex?”

Sherlock looked up to see John was completely horrified, “Forget I said anything.”

“I didn’t even know you thought about... sex... I always thought you thought of it analytically.”

“A necessity for the persistence of the human race?”

“Yeah,” John said with a furrowed brow.

“But it’s so much more than that. Why must we constantly devalue the importance of sex and love and making children?” Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, “Go home, John. Make love to your wife, for me.”

John looked down at him with a sober gaze, “Have you gone mad?”

“I never told you I love you and I think it’s about time I did.”

“Should I be taking you into hospital? Did you-“

“Sh, don’t speak,” Sherlock said, pressing a finger to his lips, “I love you, but not in a creepy way. You shouldn’t be afraid,” John looked very afraid at this point, “It’s a completely platonic, non-sexual love, that knows no bounds. John I’m absolutely and madly in love with you.”

“Like in a brotherly love sort of way?” John asked, highly concerned.

“Well... not my brother per se, but yes, in a sense,” Sherlock said with a shrug, “I thought you ought to know.”

“All right,” John said with a nod, “Surprisingly... not the strangest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said with a bit of disappointment, “I was hoping it would at least make the top ten.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely up there.”

“Happy Birthday, by the way.”

“Ta,” John said with a laugh looking down at his former flatmate who was sprawled out on the floor, pronouncing his undying love for him. “And I thought I was drunk.”


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock never thought he’d hold another baby again, not after Mat, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to hold John’s newborn daughter, Violet.

It took far too much persuasion and constant badgering to make sure she was given the name Violet. Sherlock felt as if it was his soul mission in life to pass down the name. Of course, she looked very little like his Violet, but he could see a small twinkle of cynicism in her bright blue eyes.

This was beyond perfect, he thought. She was so small and fragile, with tiny hands and sharp fingernails. Everyone was surprised that Sherlock wanted to hold her and even more surprised when he didn’t want to give her back.

She had her eyes wide open and was looking around at the blurred shapes of the world, unable to see much past her little nose.

“Hello,” Sherlock thought he might as well introduce himself, “I’m your God father. Though I’m not exactly sure what a God father is supposed to do and seeing as I have no affiliations with any Mafia-“

“Sherlock,” John scolded from the rocking chair.

“Not that I’m looking to change that,” he elaborated. “And if they expect me to raise you as a good Christian-“

“Sherlock,” John chided once more.

“This is a private conversation, John. Now please, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s not like she’s going to remember any of it,” Mary assured him.

“She’ll be traumatized from day one,” John complained.

“And while I can’t be an exemplary Christian, I will be there for you, always. To help fight against evil and help guide you in your path to... whatever it is you want to be. Whether it be a blood-sucking politician or an axe-murderer, I’ll be there to conceal evidence, hide dismantled persons, and whatnot,” Sherlock looked towards John for approval.

“Alright, give her back,” John said, reaching out for his daughter.

“You’re my favourite and you always will be,” Sherlock whispered softly as he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, “Just don’t tell the others,” he said with a wink. 


	20. Chapter 20

Violet couldn’t have been any more elated, hanging upside down, walking on Sherlock’s ceiling, leaving muddy little footmarks in her wake.

“Enjoy it while you can! Your father with never leave you alone with me ever again after this,” Sherlock laughed. Sherlock turned when he heard a platter come crashing to the floor.

“Sherlock, what have you done to my bloody ceiling?” Mrs Hudson asked aghast as her silver tray of biscuits tumbled out of her hands. “Get down from there before you break your bleeding neck!” she shouted.

“Language, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock scolded as he flipped Violet right-side up and handed her off gingerly. He stepped down from the ladder and reached out for Violet once more.

“She’s too precious a thing to be hanging off the rafters,” Mrs Hudson said, cooing and fawning over her in typical Mrs Hudson fashion.

“I promise to be more careful with her.”

“What parents would leave such a sweet girl with a madman like you?”

“I had a hand in making her, of course I should have a hand in raising her properly as well,” he said, beaming with pride.

“I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

“It’s for the best,” Sherlock said with a wink. He reached out for Violet once more and she reached out for him.

The little toddler was a bundle of joy. She babbled endlessly and was eager to take her first steps on her own. However, Sherlock wasn’t about to let her stray far from the path she’d already set, on his ceiling, and in his heart.

He walked away from Mrs Hudson and brought Violet to the window, to look out on to Baker Street.

“I’ve finally found those words, remember? The magical words that make John stay?” he asked Violet. “I’ve been searching for them for _so long_ ,” he emphasized. “It’s something that your mummy doesn’t have, but I do. Something she can never have.”

Three little words that made John come crawling back, every time. And they couldn’t have been more simple:

_Let’s have sex_


End file.
